Resurrection
by Vampire-Angel-Z
Summary: Q's life is made even more difficult when he is given charge of another double-oh. MI6's very own fanfiction: 007.
1. Chapter 1

"Agent down." Eve's desolate whisper rings through MI6, reaching every ear despite its soft sound.

Q's winces in professional sympathy. He liked 002. He was a good agent. A little on the cranky side, but a good agent nonetheless. Always brought Q's equipment back in salvageable condition. With a crooked, sheepish grin. Q will miss that rugged face.

M lets her humanity show for the first time in the twelve hundred years she has been working for MI6. Her face shows heartbreak. Her employees stay frozen. They stop breathing, and blinking. It's better to play statue when agents are lost, rather than show any kind of emotions. Emotions are contraindicated.

"Retrieval mission, ma'am?" Tanner eventually breaks the silence and addresses M. An agent's corpse can tell an enemy more about an Intelligence agency than anything else.

"Get him back ASAP," M's tone seems to have lost the regal undercurrent to it, it always seems to have. Now it's hollow. She, like most of MI6, was quite fond of double-oh 2.

Double-oh 4, who is standing next to Q, a woman with sharp green eyes and dark, wavy hair steps forward. "Permission to continue where 002 left off, ma'am." She isn't asking permission, just kind of letting M know where she is going to be for the next few months.

"Denied." M comes back to life at her agent's words. "Absolutely denied."

"I can get the job done." Q admires the woman's ability to talk back to M. Q himself possesses no such trait. "I can finish this."

"I don't doubt your abilities double-oh 4." M stares into fiery green eyes, "You _can _potentially accomplish this mission. Statistics however…"

"You're not going to throw numbers in my face," double-oh 4's tone is blank, but she might as well be screaming in the harsh, pin-drop silence of the room. "Not now."

"I am not going to lose another double-oh," M isn't intimidated by her agent in the slightest; she has the bored look Q gets when his cats are misbehaving. "Two agents are more than enough."

Q winches when he thinks of 009. That one really hurt. The youngest double-oh was as beautiful on the inside as he was on the outside. The kind of sweetness which made every MI6 employee question M's decision to not only promote him to double-oh, but to let the adorable bugger in MI6 in the first place. The man was a ruthless killer when he needed to be, but like all dissociative personalities, had a very angelic side heart hiding underneath Armani suits. Q remembers the day he caught 009 trying to rescue a kitten from a tree the day after he decapitated six men with a rusty machete. It was a fun day. They had coffee after spending three hours at the vet.

"We have to stop him." 004 says what every single person is thinking, but doesn't have the balls to say. "Unless you _want _Britain to be wiped off the face of the planet."

"Permission denied, 004." M stands up, her legs feeling numb, "Q, with me."

"Ma'am." Q coughs nervously when he feels green eyes burning daggers at their backs as he follows M.

"Don't mind her." M's words are not comforting in the slightest. "There's a reason I discourage fraternization between agents."

_Dear god, _the gossip inside Q almost explodes, _004 and 002? No sodding way. No no no. I would have seen it. I would have. _

M gives Q a knowing look. "Trust me, they were going steady."

The new MI6 building is alright. Q likes his lair, but the sheer _distance _between places is annoying to the highest degree. There's a mile between every two places one can think off. The walk is long and tedious as M leads Q down an even lower level than the one Q branch rests on.

"You millennium younger than me, Q." M mocks as she looks back at her companion, "Do try to keep up."

"Younger doesn't always mean faster." Q's out of shape, despite being the skinniest MI6 employee, ever. It's possible to not have an ounce of body fat and still not be able to keep up with a sixteen hundred year old woman. It truly is. Possible and embarrassing.

"How long have you worked here, Q?"

"Fifteen years, ma'am."

"How do you like it?"

"Better than being a professor." Q misses his students nonetheless. They were good kids, dull and overly-privileged, but good.

M smiles, "Do you find this job difficult?"

Q thinks of all the weapons he designs, the computers he hacks, the wide spectrum of personality disorders he gets to study on a daily basis. "Not really," Q is disturbed to admit. The quartermaster before him went mad. Q wonders if he will eventually succumb to the same fate.

"Would you like a challenge?"

"No." Q quickly answers because he has learned to the hard way. "I would not, ma'am. Please let me go back to my routine work. There are grenades to be designed and all that."

M smiles, "MI6 has taught you well, young grasshopper." That said, the pair continues to walk in silence. Q doesn't bother feeling dread at M's pitiful smile. As MI6's quartermaster, he is used to shit hitting the fan every four seconds.

After walking for what seems like years, the two stop outside a 16 by 16 foot steel door, reinforced with titanium. Even the most microscopic organism couldn't get in if it wanted to. Q knows, he helped his predecessor design the damn thing back when he was a lowly assistant. The only way inside is a dainty little hand scanner which rests in the far left corner.

"Allow me, ma'am." Q says politely and tries to place his hand on the palm reader.

M stops him, an elegant hand on a disturbingly bony wrist. "If you value your life, don't. This place is rigged to explode if anyone but me tries to enter."

Q helped with the design, and naturally assumed he had clearance. There aren't many places the quartermaster gets locked out of. "What's in there, ma'am?"

M places her hand on the scanner, and allows it to slowly read every crevice of her hand in microscopic detail. "A weapon."

"A weapon." While Q may have helped design the place, he never did find out what they placed inside. "Inside the world's most dangerous case. My apologies, ma'am, but no weapon in MI6 needs this kind of clearance. I would know."

"A weapon before your time, quartermaster."

It takes the scanner five minutes to read M's hand, the slow, anal thing that it is. Q, in the meantime, offers to bring M some tea. The offer is politely declined. Thank god, Q doesn't think he could handle the walk back.

"Tell me, Q." M says while the laser is at her thenar eminence. "How do you like working with double-oh agents?"

Double-oh agents are predictable. They have set patterns, behaviors, and personalities. Q, in stark contrast to his minions, finds the double-ohs the easiest to work with compared to the rest of MI6 – still doesn't mean he can actually stand them for a period longer than five minutes. "I don't much care for them, ma'am."

"Then you will hate him." M says as the steel contraption, that Q doesn't even remember being this big and annoying, opens. "You will really hate him."

Q follows M like the obedient puppy everyone always expects him to be, but Q only does his obedient puppy routine for M. She's actually earned his respect. Everyone else gets hipster Q.

Inside is a cuboid room, which automatically lights up when M enters. Q blinks at the painfully bright fluorescent tubes. "In your fifteen years as an MI6 employee, you must have heard of double-oh-7."

Q, back in his assistant days, memorized the double-oh files the instant he got security clearance. He remembers nights spent in his office, reading whimsical stories on his laptop. Like that time when 004 single-handedly took down 56 Russian mercenaries without a single bullet or grenade on her. When 003 removed sixteen bullets from his own body with only a nail as surgical instrument and a bottle of scotch as anesthesia. Or when 008 got doused with holy water, and not only survived, he also managed to use the holy water dripping from his body as a weapon against his opponent. But no mention of a 007. The agent is a legend around MI6, but Q never found any evidence of his existence.

Q tried. He researched, and hunted. This puzzle intrigued him to no end. His mentor, the previous quartermaster never answered a single question his protégé asked. Tight-lipped old man. Fellow employees tell fantastic tales of impossible feats passed down from their superiors, but no one ever recalls seeing the agent in person. 007 was before most people's time. To this day, Q gets into these phases, where he searches, like a shark looking for a source of blood.

"_Did you find it?" Trina from accounting asks David, her heels clicking loudly as she enters the Q branch, looking haggard and afraid. "Please tell me you found it."_

_David, one of Q's less stupid minions, doesn't answer, just holds up a manila folder. _

"_You're a legend, love." Trina sighs with relief and snatches the folder greedily. "How did you find it?"_

_Actually, Q found the file and printed it. The thing was hidden in an obsolete, forgotten and outdated partition on MI6 servers that is being analyzed as they speak, god forbid it has anything important. David has quite a crush on Trina, so Q doesn't stand in the way of his employee's journey to fucking the hot accountant. He lets David take credit._

"_You are amazing." Trina says, with hearts in her eyes. "You just saved my job."_

_David strikes a pose, his stocky built in a classic pose. "I'm double-oh seven."_

_Q-branch snickers in its entirety. Q himself standing stark still in the middle as Trina places a soft kiss on David's left cheek. 002, who is about to leave on what will be his last mission, looks troubled at David's pose. He snatches the gun Q has customized for him, and walks out, the expression on his face thunderous._

"_Boss?" Henry, a scrawny intern asks timidly, as Q watches 002 leave. "You did the hard work, want me to take over the mind-numbingly dull part?"_

_Q wordlessly steps aside and lets his intern take over the code. "Go nuts." And follows 002._

"_Don't ask." The man calls out before Q can bother trying to question him. "Just don't." _

Q remembers his last conversation with 002 with regret. He wishes his final words to the dead man were anything other than, _Bring back my gun in one piece or I will end you. _"There was never an agent by that designation ma'am. It's a fairy tale." A standard MI6 response.

"Do you believe that?"

"All other numbers are accounted for. From 001 to 009. I can only assume that there was such an agent, who defected, or sold MI6 secrets, got caught, and executed. His records were wiped cleaned, as if he never existed. His body destroyed."

"He didn't betray us and his body wasn't destroyed, even though it should have. If he fell in enemy hands, despite his inactivated condition, it would be a right mess."

"Ma'am," Q adjusts his glasses. He's pulled a three day weekend, trying to help 002 despite his unfortunate fate, and despite his efforts, there is a dead agent heading their way soon, and Q needs to get ready to take notes if he is going to be present for the autopsy. "With all due respect, if you are trying to tell me that double-oh 7 exists, I am going to lose my shit and bang my head against these steel walls until you see brain matter."

M can see the bags under exhausted eyes. The rumpled clothes, the unshaven, unshowered young man in front of her deserves a vacation before she turns his life upside down. Unfortunately, there is no time. With an apologetic look, she pulls a lever. "Watch out," she says as the floor literally starts to split open and a steel coffin starts ascending, seemingly from the very core of the planet.

"Oh, yes." Q says as he steps aside, trying to avoid falling through the gaping black hole in the floor, "I remember that mechanism."

"Quartermaster, I present to you, 007."

Q stares at the coffin.

"You have been searching for him for such a long time." M stares at Q's youthful face, "Be careful what you wish for and all that."

Q stands, frozen in exhausted surprise.

"Go on then, we don't have all day."

The man obeys, and with a grunt, pushes the lid which falls to the floor with a deafening clunk. Q's shoulders ache with the effort. Three days of sleep deprivation added to one stale scone eaten two lunches ago has left Q weak and in a state of extreme irritation.

Inside lies a tall, broad-shouldered man. The outdated yet expensive black suit he wears looks tailored to his body, a perfect fit. The shoes on his feet a beautiful shiny black. Lifeless blue eyes stare up at the ceiling, unblinking. Q finds himself unable to look away from their blank, glassy depths.

M looks as if staring at a long lost relative, "Death becomes him."

"007." Q doesn't even have the energy to be surprised. He stares at the handsome face tiredly. "Does he have a name?" He has never bothered asking other double-ohs for their names, but it feels appropriate to ask about his. Q has spent countless hours stalking this ghost.

"Bond," M answers Q's question. "James Bond."

"I don't like where this is going, not one bit." Q feels dread. For the first time in fifteen years, he feels the sudden urge to just _run…_

"He's your biggest priority after we revive him." M informs Q.

"Ma'am..."

"We need him."

"Why was he inactivated in the first place?" Q is a curious person by nature, but the sudden onslaught of a billion questions suddenly in his head leaves him dizzy.

"For his own good."

"For his…" Q laughs, and runs a hand through his greasy, unwashed hair. "I need more than that."

"He has expensive tastes." M tells Q, as if the stupidly expensive suit isn't enough to make that obvious. "He's dangerous. Be careful with him."

"All double-ohs like fancy things." Q says, "All of them are dangerous. And yes, I will be careful with the man you thought too extreme for field work, and froze in an underground coffin."

"Go home and get some sleep." M keeps staring at 007's face, "You have a lot of work to do."

"I must observe double-oh 2's autopsy."

"Forget it, his body won't tell you anything 009's didn't. Go home and rest."

Q nods, "Ma'am."

"He will be waiting for you." M looks as if she is going to reach out to Bond but catches herself at the very last second. "When you come back tomorrow. We will inform you of the location. You will meet him tomorrow."

Q nods respectfully and turns around to leave.

"Q."

"Ma'am."

"Try to dress to impress."

Q looks down at his three day old _I may not be perfect but parts of me are pretty awesome_ shirt, with the giant coffee stain near the abdominal area, and then at the pricey, three-piece number on Bond's corpse. "I don't think I own anything which can possibly impress this man."

"Clean then." M says dryly. "You can manage clean?"

"I'll see what I can do." Q holds his head up high, proud of his appearance, even when common sense tells him otherwise.

* * *

A/N: I am currently working on a new Knightfall chapter, but this came out of nowhere and I had to do something about it. To all the people who like Knightfall, sorry. I am taking too damn long, I know.


	2. Chapter 2

When Q gets home on M's orders, he's infinitely glad he's here, because the world is spinning. Removing his glasses doesn't help his vision any, and he stumbles through his living room, hoping to avoid anything on the floor, because if he falls, he isn't sure if he will ever get back up again.

Showering and eating or paying any kind of attention to the cats is well beyond Q's priorities; he walks into his hurricane of a messy room, and falls face down into bed, into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Waking up, without an alarm blaring, or a hysterical MI6 employee ringing him for instruction is a sweet treat that Q hopes he never gets used to because it ain't ever happening again.

The after-glow of perfect sleep aside, the rank smell coming from his body alarms Q into action and he runs toward his bathroom before his nose explodes. One look in the mirror, and Q winces. Blood shot eyes, three days worth of beard, and hair a greasy, unattractive mess. _Christ. _Q thinks to himself. _Have I really been walking around looking like this?_ The horrific vision Q sees in the mirror would make even the least self-conscious individual nauseated with self-disgust.

The hot shower breathes new life into Q, and after shaving and changing into clean clothes, the man takes a cup of tea to his favourite arm chair and watches his cats trot around like they run the place, which they kind of do. Q feels like a guest in his own apartment.

His work-issued phone (a curse on every non-field employee's existence) rings. Q deliberates emptying his bank accounts and making a run for it. His university will still take him back, probably. After a moment of deliberation, Q decides to answer.

"National Gallery, 4pm." Is M's clipped message, before she hangs up and Q is left staring at the phone.

"What am I going to wear?" Q asks Snow, who is lounging on a chair nearby. There is a saying around MI6, dress like 007, and you will never go wrong for any occasion.

"Dress like 007," Q mumbles to himself as he gets up. "Do I have any obscenely priced clothing lying around here somewhere?" He suddenly remembers the Margiela jacket he bought on an insane whim and then forgot to return, it's not current, but it's the closest thing he has to chic.

Q tries business casual, and picks his fanciest pair of jeans. "Am I supposed to press and crease jeans?" Q asks Snow, because she is very good with clothes. Q is convinced that she is the 007 of the cat world. "You're right. Jeans don't need pressing. They look fine." And it's not like Q knows where his iron is anyway.

"Tie?" Q asks, as Nine shuffles by, completely unhelpful. Snow meows, a soft whine. "I will take that as a yes. I'm going with the black one."

Q's fingers work deftly on the tie. "How do I look?" He opens his arms wide when he's done. Snow cocks her head to the side, as if saying: _Well, it's a start. Now work on that baby face of yours and he might just take you seriously._

Q carefully removes the tags from his jacket, afraid to rip the damn thing to shreds. The weather doesn't look all that promising, and the pricey thing is for decorative purposes only. "Better wear my duffle."

Snow doesn't approve of the last minute addition, but keeps her opinion to herself. Q can tell anyway. "What, I'm supposed to freeze to death?"

Snow's silence is answer enough.

Q thinks he looks better than he has in months. With the bathing and the fancy clothes. His usual stubble is all gone, and he even ran a brush through his hair. "I don't get paid enough for this." Q complains, even though his salary is in six digits. "I really don't. I'm the quartermaster, not some bloke on a runway. I like looking messy."

The cats have lost all interest in Q's existence, and are currently having some kind of staring contest in the corner of the room. Nine is winning, but Snow is letting him win so it's not really a real victory, just pure condescension.

"Alright then," Q calls out, "Leaving for work now. This place better be standing when I come back."

Snow politely meows goodbye. Nine, distant as always like his namesake, doesn't even acknowledge Q's departure.

* * *

Bond sits catatonic, staring at _The Fighting Temeraire_ blankly. Q stands a short distance away, watching Bond watch the painting.

The three-piece from the other day has been replaced with a more modern number. Perfectly fitted lighter colored pants and shoes so achingly pretentious they make Q wince. Even the haircut has been adjusted to fit current times, shorter than Bond had yesterday. _He's been awake four hours and already caught up to today's style. _Q thinks, _At least his priorities are straight. _

Q wonders why M has picked the National Gallery of all places for his meeting with Bond. Perhaps she knows how damn uncomfortable he is with this entire situation and bringing them both to a place Q finds comforting is her way of helping. Or perhaps this is her way of showing Q that in this public place, Bond is just as much flesh and bones as his fellow human beings, not the creature MI6 makes him out to be. Either way, M's efforts have failed.

The place is extremely busy. Q briefly entertains the thought of making a run for it, slipping safely into the crowd, but the idea of going back to a boring university tenure makes his skin crawl worse than having to face whatever it is that M has thawed. _Ask and ye shall receive. _Q thinks, _I've been looking for you, and here you are._

With a tired sigh and steady feet, Q walks over to Bond and sits down beside him. If the other man has noticed Q's presence, he doesn't bother acknowledging it.

Q doesn't have a lot of experience breaking the ice, and for good reason. For the past fifteen years, he hasn't had to initiate a conversation with anyone. Agents come to him. Rarely does Q ever step out of the comfort of his lair.

Bond isn't quite a statue. He radiates warmth and his breathing is quite ordinary, but he hasn't moved from his position for the last twenty minutes and that worries Q a little.

"Always makes me feel a little melancholy." Q confesses to his… colleague about the painting he himself has stared at for hours at a time. "A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap. Inevitability of time, don't you think?"

No answer. Either Bond hasn't heard a single thing Q has said, or he has heard it, and ignored it. Q doesn't know which is worse.

"What do you see?"

No answer.

Q sighs, "007. I'm your new quartermaster." That said, he waits for the typical _you're barely out of puberty _speech and is disappointed when he doesn't get one. Q hopes Bond's recently defrosted skull is at least processing his voice. "You will be staying with me until you are better adjusted to this time period."

No answer.

"Bond." This is the first time Q has ever addressed a double-oh by his or her name. "You have to cooperate with me."

"Trust me; you would know if I wasn't cooperating."

_So it speaks! _Q nods indulgently. "Yes, you are a double-oh, and inherently very dangerous. Very good for you. I'm only trying to help."

"Alright then." Bond stands up, Q following his lead. "Help."

Q has a sudden urge to stand up straight and try to look intimidating. He's never had that urge before, even during the school yard days when pushing him to the ground used to be the most fun activity the school had to offer. "Alright then." He murmurs.

Bond starts leading Q through the museum, as if Q's the one recently revived, and Bond has been here for eons. Q finds himself actually envying the over-confident bastard.

There's a car waiting for them outside, a standard MI6 issue. Bond makes a face at it. "What unattractive hell is this?"

"Would you prefer an Aston Martin?"

"I would prefer a bicycle over this." Bond says as he sits down. The expression on his face disgusted. "Do they still have those?"

"Yes, they do." Q finds himself smiling. "Both Bicycles and Aston Martins."

The next few minutes pass in silence. Q studies Bond's profile from his peripheral vision. Should a man brought back to life centuries later _be _this at ease?

Bond stares at the sky, and at the passing scenery. "I see global warming has done wonders."

"Sure," Q shrugs. He hasn't been alive long enough, or outdoors enough, to notice the changes in London weather but he will take Bond's word for it.

"Everything is…" Bond takes a pause as he looks around.

"Everything is," Q prompts the man to finish his sentence.

"More annoying." Bond finishes his thought as he leans back into his seat. "Definitely more annoying."

"I see."

"And brighter." Blue eyes blink and squint. "Everything's too bright."

"You have been in a steel coffin, underground for god knows how long. Of course everything's too bright."

"They are letting children into the MI6 these days. Truly desperate times."

Q nods agreeably. "Snatched me on the way to school they did. Said they'd give me bonbons they did."

"Seriously," Bond sneers at Q. "You have spots."

"And you're literally an ancient relic. Can we get past the age thing and develop a healthy quartermaster/agent relationship?"

"There's no such thing."

Q thinks of the hundreds of agents his branch oversees, and the tense, but manageable rapport he has with the few field workers who answer directly to him. "I disagree, partially."

"Only partially?"

"I do okay with field staff." Q says thoughtfully. "I think."

"Like I said, truly desperate times."

"Well, yes." Q says, not offended in the slightest, "They brought you back for a reason."

"They shouldn't have. Proper protocol is to destroy an inactivated agent's body. Not store it."

"That's," Q nods, "the most disturbing thing I've ever heard anyone say about themselves. And I'm MI6's quartermaster."

"You are incompetent." Bond sneers.

"You haven't seen me do anything yet."

"We've just been kidnapped and you haven't even noticed."

It's then that Q notices the barren road through the heavily tinted car windows, and gods, are there even barren roads in London? There is a screen between the front seats and the back, and lord knows Q will personally upgrade every MI6 vehicle and take the damn things out. It's clearly a safety issue. There is no way of knowing who the fucking driver is. "When did this happen?"

"I don't know, child." Bond's smile is mockingly pleasant. "When did this happen?"

"Did you know we would get kidnapped when we got in the car?"

"Why would I get in a car knowing we'd get kidnapped?"

"I don't know." Q could so easily panic right now. "Sport?"

"Sport."

"I don't know what double-ohs do for fun." Q says defensively. "Maybe getting kidnapped for fun is a thing."

"Getting kidnapped for fun is _not _a thing." Bond confirms.

"Lesson learned."

Bond shakes his head at Q. "Seriously, what preschool did they find you in?"

"The genius one?" Q says weakly. At Bond's glare he shrugs. "I'm sorry I don't get out much."

"Now would be a good time to say your prayers."

"Please don't hit me."

"I'm not going to hit you."

"Then why should I say my prayers?"

Bond gives Q an incredulous look. "We've been kidnapped." He snaps. "Is your under-developed frontal lobe not getting the message?"

The back seat is silent for the next few minutes, and then Q huffs out a laugh. "I get it. Because the frontal lobe is the last to develop completely in an adult brain."

"Your stupidity is personally offending."

"Aren't you 007?"

"Yes," Bond says, as if talking to a _very _slow adolescent. "I am 007."

"Then get us out of this." Q orders. "And fast. I haven't had lunch yet."

"You know what?" Bond says, "I change my mind. I think I _am _going to hit you."

"You're a god around MI6. They tell ridiculous stories about you. Are any of those true?"

"I don't know." Bond says, irritated, as he undoes his seat belt.

Q eyes the action worriedly. "Bond?"

"How do these locks work?" Bond looks at the car doors. "Can you unlock them?"

"No." Q gives the perma-freeze platinum3455 locks a glance. "Not without my equipment."

"Useful." Bond says sarcastically. "Come closer."

"We just met." Q obeys nonetheless, and undoes his own seatbelt. "We should take things slow."

"Don't flatter yourself." Bond says, "Unlike MI6, I don't prey on children."

"Okay," Q says, uncomfortable when Bond pulls him closer. The man's body is feverishly and pleasantly hot. "Now what?"

Bond doesn't answer, just throws his and Q's collective weight against the door.

_Okay, I am panicking. _Q closes his eyes tightly. _I am so panicking. _

One more monstrous push, and the car door protests. Before Q's throat can even formulate a proper scream, he and Bond are out of the car, rolling around on concrete. Bond takes the brunt of the damage; his hands scrap against the concrete terribly in the process of protecting Q's head from it. His own head hits the road a couple of times hard, and a throbbing headache starts to formulate.

"Oh my god," Q says, hysterical where he lands, with Bond's heavy weight on top of him, his head still cupped by giant hands. "Oh my fucking god."

Bond doesn't even have the decency to be flustered. He rolls off Q and stands in a couple of quick, smooth motions, adjusting his stupid suit casually and starts walking toward the now stopped car. Apparently the kidnappers have noticed they have lost their passengers.

Q forces himself out of shock, and tries to get out of Bond's way.

The man who steps out of the car, with a fucking assault rifle, never gets the chance to fire it, because Bond tackles him like a deranged animal, war cry and all. Q quickly makes a run for the rifle which has fallen out of the man's hand. Bond never lets the man rise, just keeps punching him the face until the man is bloodied.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Q calmly tells the driver about to join in on the fight taking place on the side of the road. "Hands behind your head, knees on the ground." The man obeys, much to Q's secret relief, because his aim, despite the shooting range sessions he is forced to endure is absolutely dreadful. He actually has a bigger statistical chance of hitting Bond, who is about seven feet away from the driver, than the driver himself.

When Bond is done beating the man half to death, he stands, and heads for the other kidnapper. "Who sent you?" A harsh kick is delivered to the drivers head, making Q wince. That looked like it hurt.

The man doesn't answer, just gives the towering agent an amused look.

Bond doesn't bother further questioning, just places a swift hand on the man's neck and renders him unconscious.

"Did you just do the Vulcan nerve pinch?" Q asks as Bond starts moving the gunman's bloodied unconscious body to the car. "Why didn't you just do that to the first man?"

Bond pauses, and flashes Q another irritated glare. "What?"

"Right," Q suddenly remembers. "You don't know what Star Trek is."

"English." Bond tells Q. "Speak English."

"That thing that you did to his neck," Q gestures to the driver. "You didn't have to beat the first guy, just do the neck thingy with him too."

"I needed to beat something." Bond's angry snarl suggests that he would rather be beating Q right now. "And a target needs to be perfectly still for the _neck thingy_, or it won't work."

"Oh," Q says, "Well, it was still impressive."

Bond grunts as he throws the second man in, uncaring of where their limbs land as long as they are inside the car, like they are a sack of potatoes. "Thank you," He says sarcastically, when he's done. "Any other comments on my performance."

"I didn't like the part where we jumped out of the car."

"I'm double-oh, even archaic my knowledge is worth millions, and you're MI6's current quartermaster. You are priceless in the black market. What do you think would have happened to us if I had let them take us wherever it is they were taking us?"

"Torture?" Q guesses.

"That's right," Bond says, as if a poodle has performed a particularly amusing trick. "And rape, and lots of other fun things."

"Well," Q says when Bond has closed the car door. "This was a learning experience."

"Give me that before you hurt yourself." Bond takes the rifle from Q. "Children shouldn't handle guns."

"I'm the quartermaster. I have dealt with millions of guns."

"I saw the way you were holding this thing." Bond turns the safety on and examines the gun with disturbing ease and expertise, judging the magazine and the receiver with a practiced eye, even if this particular rifle was invented decades after Bond's death. "You can't shoot worth shit."

"Can too."

"Seriously, how old are you?"

"Old enough to know when I'm not being appreciated."

"Start driving." Bond gets in the passenger seat. "Before our friends wake up."

"They should have at least tied us up or something." Q obeys and starts the car.

"Exactly," Bond's eyes watch the unconscious men in the back seat like a hawk. "Their kidnapping attempt was so unsatisfactory. Let's hope they get it right next time."

"I didn't mean it that way and you know it." Q turns the car around, heading back toward London. "But this was a wasted effort."

"Lucky for you." Bond murmurs. "You wouldn't have survived five minutes of torture."

_I have not made a good impression. _Q thinks as he drives them to MI6. _Could have been worse. I don't know how but it could have been worse._

When they are back at headquarters, M is waiting for them. "You are late."

In his fifteen years of working at MI6, Q has never seen M wait for anyone, let alone standing out here in the freezing garage. This double-oh seven situation is starting to really alarm Q.

"Brought you presents." Bond says and opens the back seat. One of the two men half falls out.

M takes one look at the unconscious gunman's body and chastises Bond. "You didn't have to break his neck."

It's when Q realizes that the man isn't unconscious after all.

"I needed to kill something, ma'am." Bond's tone is so full of abhorrence that for one second, Q almost _does _back out and make a run for it.

"All assailants should be brought in _alive_ for questioning when reasonably possible, 007." M narrows her eyes at Bond.

"The other one's alive." Bond gestures to the driver. "Hopefully he knows something."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then I'm afraid you're out of luck, ma'am."

"Bond, this behavior is the very reason you were inactivated."

"Feel free to do it again." Bond challenges. "And this time, do it right. Make it permanent."

"Are you saying you don't want to serve MI6 anymore?"

"I'm saying I will serve on _my _terms."

"And your terms are killing recklessly."

"What's the point of having a licence to kill if you can't use it?"

Q starts walking backward, finally acting on his self-preservation instincts.

"Where do you think you're going?" M questions Q sharply as a group of agents carry the unconscious body in for questioning, and the dead one for autopsy.

"I was going to get started on my paperwork."

M gives Q a disbelieving look.

"What exactly is the meaning of this?" Bond looks at Q, who somehow looks even younger in the harsh fluorescent lights of the garage then he did in the low, orange-pinkish tones of the sunset. "He should be in college."

"He looks much, much younger than he actually is, and he's excellent at his job."

Q preens a little at the praise. Even if it's possibly false and only meant to irritate Bond.

"You like them young." A drop of blood trickles down Bond's face, "You like them malleable, so you can mold them into exactly the weapons you need."

"Get yourself to medical," M orders Bond, and the sight is as comical as one of those documentaries where trainers try to domesticate lions. "You will report to duty tomorrow. A mission awaits."

When M makes eye contact with Q, he smiles shakily and tries to communicate with his eyes: _Don't leave me alone with him, he's scary. _

"You look clean," M comments, "and professional. The tie is a nice addition. I've never seen you in one."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Please try to make this kind of effort with your appearance on a regular basis." M says, as she starts to walk away. "People are starting to complain about the smell."

"Ma'am." Q says, as M departs.

"People were starting to complain about your smell?" Bond repeats slowly, looking truly repulsed.

"You have no idea the kind of workload these people dump on me." Q says defensively. "Bathroom breaks are a privilege. If they want me dolled up like a rent boy all the time, they are going to have to increase my budget so I can hire people with a little more brain cells."

"Where is medical?" Bond places a hand on the back of his skull and then holds it up for inspection, disconcerted to find blood.

"This way," Q reaches out to Bond, to try and help him, but thinks better, and places his hands in his pockets. "Medical was renovated recently, so everything's really new and shiny."

"That's nice." Bond inspects his hands, bleeding from the concrete.

"I was a professor you know. Before I came here. I'm really not as young as I look."

"That's comforting. A professor, handling the department's armoury."

"You'll understand." Q says sagely, "When I save your stupidly handsome arse one day, and then you'll eat your words. _I'm so sorry Q. I should have been nicer to you. Please accept my ruggedly masculine apology."_

"That is the worst imitation of me I've _ever _heard."

"There are certain people working in MI6 who've done much worse in your name."

"They should have just destroyed my body."

"Trust me," That wide mouth stretches in an infuriating smirk. Bond wants to punch the quartermaster. "When you hear David's impression of 007, you will do that yourself."

* * *

A/N: Thanks to everyone who is reading. :)


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read and commented. I really appreciate it you guys.

* * *

Medical is gorgeous, all new tiles, marble and glass. It's such a stark contrast from the rest of the ruin that is MI6 that it takes Q's eyes a minute to adjust to all the clean newness.

Bond struts in beside Q like he owns the place, heading straight for an empty exam room. The nurse he passes in his sleek glory drops her jaw. Q's eyesight isn't what it used to be in his prime (how can it be? He stares at computer screens nearly 24/7), but even with his prescription vision, he can tell her pupils are dilated. _I'll bet all my bank accounts her panties are wet. _Q thinks to himself. _She can't handle all the ruggedness._

Q follows Bond, nodding to the nurse, Fantasia, her name is. She does a double take at his appearance. "Oh wow, Q. You look…"

"Clean." Q nods. "You noticed."

"What's going on? Am I missing something?" Fantasia asks. Q's sudden professionalism has to be a sign of some kind. "Is there a staff meeting today?" She looks down at the wrinkled scrubs she's wearing self-consciously, "I keep a pantsuit in my locker. Should I go change?"

"There's nothing going on," Q says, soothingly, "Please relax."

"Then why are you all dressed up and pretty."

"I…" Q looks at Bond from his peripheral vision. "I was reprimanded by M. She told me to dress better."

"Was it the smell?" Fantasia asks, mock sympathetically. "Did someone complain again?"

Q sighs. He forgets to shower, _sometimes_, because he is dealing with a wicked amount of code every day. But that's MI6 employees for you. Over-sensitive pricks, the lot of them.

"So, what's his story?" Fantasia asks Q a moment after he doesn't answer, as Bond sits on an exam table, eyeing the blood on his suit, bored.

Q stares at Bond, those crystal blue eyes, infinitely hungry for violence. Blood streaking blond hair. The sheer boyishness of that face is annoying. _He's old enough to be your grandfather's grandfather's grandfather's grandfather _is what Q should say.

"Is he new?"

"Sure," Q shrugs, "Why not?"

"He's breathtaking." Fantasia lets out a sigh, "I would like to wrap my legs around his waist."

Bond's eyes flicker with amusement at that. Q's widen. _He's double-oh, _he suddenly remembers as Fantasia whispers quietly to Q exactly what she would like to do to Bond once she gets him under her sheets. _He can hear her crystal clear. _

"How do I look?" Fantasia asks Q when she is done telling him exactly what she will do to Bond's balls with her tongue. "Should I go change? Or stay in scrubs? Will the pantsuit help me get anywhere with him?"

_Yes, _Q thinks, _If the pantsuit is Prada. _"You look great." Q says instead.

Fantasia frowns at Q. "Is he the reason you're dressed so well today?"

There's a general misunderstanding at MI6 regarding Q's sexual preference, but different departments hold different theories. The double-ohs believe Q is asexual, and refrains from all intimate activities because they're not sure if Q even has sexual organs and that he was created in a lab by the original Q, who went crazy. Medical thinks he's homosexual, and needs a big strong man to make his life complete (they try to set him up with a new fellow as much as they can, because they worry about him, and think he's due for a psychotic breakdown any day now and that regular orgasms can save his mind).

The Q branch believes Q is sexually attracted to computers, and humps his laptop as soon as he gets home. The rumor is seriously advanced and a lot of people firmly believe it, but Q doesn't negate it because it keeps people from touching his laptop (god forbid they come in contact with any bodily fluids).

"Trust me." Q shudders involuntarily when he remembers the sight of Bond lying supine in his steel tomb, dead to the world. "I'm not competition."

"You sure? You'll look better on his dick than I will." Fantasia says, much to Q's absolute mortification.

Bond smirks at Q who makes a face, as if he's sucked a particularly sour lemon.

"No worries," Fantasia shrugs at Q, as if seriously questioning his homosexual status, "More candy for me."

"Right," Q thinks of earlier this afternoon, when Bond threw them out of a vehicle operating at about 100mph. "Candy."

Fantasia grins back at Q, silly and giddy, and then adjusts her bra so her ample bosom pops out even more. "Do I look sexy?"

"Of course."

Before Fantasia can walk over to Bond and make her move, Dr. Marquez arrives and interrupts her plans.

"Bond is it?" Marquez adjust his bifocals and takes a seat beside the table on the roley poley chair. "Dr. Marquez."

"Doctor," Bond greets, never taking his eyes off of Q, blue eyes dancing with mirth. "James Bond."

"You have a concussion." Dr. Marquez has seen thousands of injuries in his time and it's come to the point that he can just take one measly look at a field agent and do some kind of mental CT scan on them. It's frankly frightening as all fuck. "And you need stitches."

"Wonderful." Is Bond's response.

"Don't leave him alone, make sure he doesn't fall asleep." The good doctor gives Q one cursory response, and then a more careful observation. "You look clean. What's the occasion?"

"No special reason, sir."

"People were starting to complain about the smell." Bond tells Marquez. "M had to get involved."

Marquez wrinkles his nose. "Ah yes, I remember. Children and their computers I swear. They're so busy playing, they forget basic hygiene."

"Exactly." Bond agrees. The arsehole.

"I'm not playing, I'm the quartermaster."

"Of course," Marquez uses the same tone with Q he uses with his grandbabies and then gestures to Bond as if he's a bloodhound and Q the owner. "Watch him for the next few hours. Bring him back if he starts vomiting, gets all dizzy, has a seizure, starts seeing double, slurring, starts walking funny, or whatever."

"Yes, sir."

"Son," Marquez turns to Bond, while rapidly writing in his chart, and it's funny because Bond is old enough to be the elderly doctor's father. "Do you have a headache?"

Bond nods.

"I'll send some Paracetamol with the nurse who'll do your stitches. Wait here." That said, the doctor gets up with much difficulty. His left hip's been bothering him, so Q reckons the dreaded cane will be back soon. Dr. Marquez has been known to cane people when frustrated. "Don't drink or do drugs until the headache stops and you're in the clear." He advises Bond and walks away, favouring his bad leg.

"You fancy men?" Bond asks as soon as the doctor is out of earshot.

"I don't even know any more." Q isn't lying. The rumors about his sexual preferences are insane.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"I have a computer." Q answers, because all party invitations addressed to him include the laptop because it's his other half.

"I have seen worse fetishes."

"What do you like?" Q finds himself asking Bond a question he's never bothered asking anyone before. People (family, friends and fellow employees alike) are so curious about his sexuality; it's hypocritical to inquire about anyone else's deal. But Bond is so impossibly attractive, even for a double-oh, Q just has to know what floats the man's boat. He just has to.

"I like whatever I have to fuck for the sake of the mission." Is Bond's response. "I'll suck dick, sodomize a woman, do both at the same time if I have to. As long as I get what I need."

"Sure." Q agrees. That's every double-oh's deal. "But what do you like. When you have a choice."

"Why, you and the computer interested in a three-way?"

"Sorry, we're monogamous."

"Pity, I could really spice up your sure to be boring relationship."

Before Q can fire a retort, because his relationship with his laptop is _anything _but boring, Henry the flustered intern, barges through Medical, and breathes a sigh of relief when he spots Q. "He's here," he calls out behind him, "I found him."

An entourage follows Henry, and Q finds himself surrounded by minions, and choruses of "Don't ever fucking leave us alone again." And "How dare you fuck off to god-knows-where and strand us here without any supervision." And a disturbing "We fucking own you, you are MI6 property, your fucking personal life can go fuck itself."

Q is handed his laptop and an earpiece, and after adjusting it into his ear, he talks smoothly, "Double-oh-3, this is Q."

A sigh of relief so loud, it can be heard by everyone in the tiny room, "Where were you? Your people are fucking useless."

"I missed you too, 003. What can I do for you?"

"I don't know. I don't fucking know. Can you see me?"

Q quickly breaks through the organization's firewall, and the security feed is onscreen in seconds. "I can now."

"Then do something about this mess."

It's hard to make out 003's form; he's surrounded by suited gunmen, who crawl around like white blood cells, looking for a virus. "If you can make it to the dock, twenty feet north-east of you in the next six seconds, I can create a suitable barrier for you to make a clean escape."

"Damn straight you can." 003 sounds calmer now, much more sure of himself, despite the fact that he's running. The fear of death is gone. "Hurry up."

Q temporarily removes the earpiece before he creates the explosion (he's learned that the hard way, going deaf for two weeks is as annoying as it is peaceful), using the out-of-date mainframes in the northern storage room, and big mistake not to discard old computers because hello, if Q can get through your firewall, he can totally create an explosion using your computers.

Double-oh 3 doesn't make quite as clean an escape he would like to, his legs not quite carrying him far enough before he gets caught in flames, but he isn't complaining because the men hunting him have been instantly fried to crisps.

Q puts the earpiece back on and waits politely and patiently, until 003 is done rolling around on the floor, and the flames preying on his body die out. "Are you alright?" He asks, "Do you require assistance."

"Fuck you." Is all 003 breathes out before he picks his body off the wet dock floor. "Don't you ever leave me again."

"That goes double for us, sir." David gives Q the same look he gave the man who ran over his puppy. "We don't care for working independently."

Henry the flustered intern is close to tears. "It was the worst day! Where were you?"

"I have taken the liberty to commandeer a vessel. It is waiting for you at about fifteen feet north." Q forces himself to believe his staff is not quite as incompetent as they seem at this moment. It's not their fault 003's mission took a particularly ugly turn. Q wonders briefly what blew 003's cover. And then shrugs. Not his problem.

003 throws his body in the boat waiting for him, the controls blinking and beckoning. "I'm not touching this thing with my bad arm. You do it."

"Very well." Q says uncomplainingly. 003's left arm is hanging at an odd angle, despite his attempts to keep it stable. "Operating remotely."

003 sighs and rests back, letting the boat seemingly drive itself to god-knows-where. "I got the hard drive." He whispers tiredly.

"Good." Q says nonchalantly but inside he's dancing. He's been wanting to get his hands on that thing for a very long time. If he wrote letters to Santa, that sodding drive would be on it. He can't wait to see what juicy secrets he discovers from it.

"Sir," David asks, when Q drops his earpiece and starts typing at the speed of light. "Why are you dressed so nice?"

Q doesn't answer, and when Fantasia kicks his people out for overcrowding her exam room and disturbing the peace, he picks up his laptop, and subconsciously stands up to follow, but Bond's voice stops him. "Concussion here. You can't leave me alone."

Q doesn't make a sound, just sits back down, never taking his eyes off his screen.

"Fantasia," The nurse introduces herself to Bond with a smile.

"Hello." Bond gives her a smile back without giving a name. Q knows it's because M hasn't given him her orders yet. He doesn't know how to introduce himself. He doesn't know his designation.

"Oh… a mysterious one," Fantasia's smile broadens. "I guess you're a spy now. You _should_ learn how to be an enigma. It's mad difficult nowadays, with all the iPhones and what not."

_He doesn't even know what cellphones are. _Q types during writing code, without realizing it, and then deletes it, silently berating traitorous fingers.

Fantasia cleans and numbs the area, after removing as much hair as she can without disrupting the wound. "There's not much blood, that's something to be proud of. No glass or debris. This is the nicest head wound I have seen in ages."

"Thank you, that's quite the compliment."

_It's really not. _Q thinks, _she's telling you you're odd._

Fantasia sews with a practiced hand and mutters to herself as she does, a personal trait of hers, talking while working. "You're a quiet one. That's good. Helps me concentrate."

Bond looks at ease, as if he's getting his hair shampooed. Fantasia commends him for sitting still like a good boy, as she pulls the edges of the cut together, looping thread through either side of the cut, and ties an expert knot to hold the wound closed. "There, all done. The cut isn't deep but we use surgical thread around here as much as we can, so the stitches dissolve on their own and agents don't have to bother coming back to have them removed."

"The thread dissolves on its own," Bond echoes Fantasia, as if cataloguing this medical advance, along with what other changes he has observed to catch up with time.

"That's right." Fantasia smiles brightly, she is known to be very friendly with newbie agents. Especially the attractive ones. She knows to have what good fun she can have with them, before they spend too much time out in the field and come back all used. "You can bath safely; water won't bother your wound. It's too shallow for that."

Bond nods. He's never cared enough to protect whatever stitches he's received over his career but it's good to know he can't catch some kind of new age infection from water.

"003's due back in a few hours." Q calls out to Marquez as he hobbles by. "His left humerus isn't looking too good."

The doctor nods back. "It's shattered. He needs a pin. We are prepping the OR."

"I should go help with that." Fantasia says as she hands Q some Paracetamol. "Two pills every four hours, you know the drill. And don't come back all scruffy tomorrow, I like you pretty." Fantasia then turns to Bond, "It was nice meeting you." That said, she leans in close to his personal space, and Q's eyes watch in slow motion, as Bond consciously controls his reflexes - the ones which slit throats - and the thoughts which pass through those blue eyes, to _not kill. _

Q saves his changes and closes his laptop. If Fantasia had known Bond was double-oh, she wouldn't dare step into his space so suddenly without carefully alerting him first. "Shall we?" He asks Bond after Fantasia is done whispering her address in his ear and leaves.

"Some things never change." Bond watches Fantasia walk away, her hips swaying. "Doesn't matter what era you wake up in."

Extreme promiscuity, just one of the many malignant behaviors MI6 employees exhibit on a daily basis, along with prescription medication use, and the general alcoholism. "She gets passed around a lot." Q eyes Fantasia's perfect ass disinterestedly as she collects surgical instruments from a nearby cart for 003's impromptu operation.

"Whatever helps her sleep at night."

"I think she's a sociopath." Q says as Bond gets off the table, his suit looking stupidly perfect, the blood stains somehow failing to take away from the attractiveness of the ensemble, only managing to highlight the cut of the suit.

"Lovely," Bond's neck cracks loudly as he cranes it around, muscles and ligaments stiff as fuck after centuries of no movement. "Do you diagnose all of your colleagues?"

"Only the interesting ones." Q starts walking. It's better to get out of Medical before double-oh three arrives and creates a sensational scene.

"The interesting ones?"

"The addicts, the nymphos, the self-mutilators, the ones who wash their hands too much because the blood won't come off."

"You mean the lady Macbeths."

Q leans against the glass door to hold it open so Bond can walk through. "I mean damaged goods."

"M wants to see you." Tanner is waiting for them outside Medical, looking suitably entertained with the phone Q built for him a month ago. He's gotten alarmingly attached to the thing over the course of four weeks and won't even let Q take another look at it. Possessive bastard. He looks up from the contraption for a passing glance and drops his jaw at Q's appearance. "Dear lord."

"Not one word." Q warns. He has been looking for the bugger who complained, and has narrowed it down to four candidates. Tanner being one of them.

"Clean, shaved, pressed." Tanner is charmingly befuddled. "Are you getting married?"

Q rolls his eyes and starts to walk away, and Bond tries to follow him, before he's stopped by Tanner. "M wants to speak with Q, alone."

"I can't leave him alone. Concussion."

"I'll watch him." Tanner says reassuringly.

Again, Q feels as if he's dealing with a blood hound. Tanner has kindly offered to take the leash so Q can run an errand. Q has adjusted to spy life quite wonderfully, too wonderfully according to certain psych evals, but he's never gotten over the feeling that agents are just trained animals, ready to be passed from one handler to the next. The feeling is as disconcerting to Q today, as it was the day he first stepped into MI6 and saw his mentor berating six field agents at once.

Q nods to Bond, who is looking at the phone in Tanner's hand curiously. _Stay, _he thinks at the towering agent. _Be good for Tanner. _

Bond takes a seat beside Tanner, who starts to brag about his phone, never quite getting that most of what he's saying is flying right over his audience's head. Bond listens patiently, and leans close when Tanner starts to go through his pictures, including the one of Q (which is most of MI6's desktop background) in which he's cornered by six drunken female colleagues with lipstick stains all over his face.

* * *

"How is he?" M asks as soon as Q lets himself in.

It's late in the evening, and M's office is painted a gloomy, eerie blue. Q has a sudden urge to turn on a lamp but refrains. M finds darkness soothing.

"Concussion, stitches." Q obeys as M gestures him to take a seat. "I'm supposed to watch him overnight."

"He will be staying with you until further notice." M turns a lamp on, Q is left blinking at the sudden light. "If that's alright with you."

The question is peculiar. Q's home has always been something of a specialty resort for double-ohs. They come and go as if they own the place. Kind of like the cats. "Why wouldn't it be alright with me?"

"You've met him."

"He's no different from the others of his kind."

"You don't believe that."

"Why wasn't his body destroyed? 009 was incinerated a mere four hours after his death and you are already looking for his replacement. Why wasn't another agent given the 007 designation?" There's an epic migraine coming, and along with it, the overly familiar, unpleasant feeling that there is nothing Q can do to stop it. It's going to happen and it's going to ruin the next three days. Now he wishes M would just turn the lamp off. "Is this the emotional attachment nonsense they are always warning us about?"

"Call it whatever you want." M doesn't bother denying it. "Emotional attachment or blatant stupidity. He's still here, and it's up to you to make sure he assimilates seamlessly into present day."

"He'll do fine," Q remembers razor sharp eyes taking in everything carefully. "He's already half-way there."

"There's a computer on every corner, and common cellphones come equipped with accessories MI6 could only dream of in his time."

"Technological advances are not a problem." Q resists the urge to take his glasses off and close his eyes. The leather sofa in the corner looks painfully seductive. "What bothers me is that you trust a man with his issues to go out into the field."

"You don't even know him."

"Don't you see what's happened here, ma'am?" Q knows he should stop readying psychiatry textbooks in what little spare time he has, and while he's at it, he should quit his secret job, and find a nice girl, and give his mother three dozen grandchildren, because damn it, she isn't getting any younger, and Q needs to call her more, and it wouldn't kill him to visit once in a while. "I think he went on a rampage, you panicked and gave him a time-out."

M watches Q silently, patiently waiting for him to continue.

"When children misbehave, they are temporarily isolated to remove positive reinforcement of negative behavior. Clearly you tried the same thing with double-oh seven."

"Stop calling him that. Don't refer to him by his numerical designation. We're not ready to deal with a mythical creature." MI6 doesn't allow double-ohs to keep their birth names, just numbers. Trust 007 to be the other way around.

"Ma'am, you locked him away, but it doesn't mean he has woken a different man. If anything…" Q pauses, as if carefully thinking over his next words, "You have probably fucked him up even more. He's out of his time, out of his comfort zone, and trained to kill. You haven't done yourself, or MI6 any favors."

"I disagree."

"He's in a different world." Q remembers the vision in Medical, the bloodthirsty look in glacial eyes. "He's playing docile. Just wait until he learns how to use a computer, and then watch him disappear."

"You think he's playing nice?"

"I think there is no nice." Q leans back in his chair, unable to sit up straight and at attention. His neck is killing him. It jerked at an uncomfortable angle when Bond threw them out the car. "He's one of _those _agents. The ones who survive their first hundred years of field work. The ones they always warn us about."

M looks down at her hands, which are folded neatly on the table in front of her.

"We try to remain objective as handlers, but we are ultimately just human beings. Emotional creatures and all that. Everyone has that one agent that gets to them, personally."

"Let's hope you never find yours."

"You once told me, that field agents," Q thinks of all his colleagues, and how for every personality disorder he has studied, there are at least six people who easily fit the description, "are like broken pieces of glass. It's our responsibility as their handlers, to make sure we don't cut ourselves trying to handle them."

"Using my own words as weapons against me?"

"Trying to remind you what Bond is. An agent, who's not under your control. It's better to put a weapon down before it backfires, like those rifles in world war two."

"Are you saying he should be terminated?"

Q pauses for a moment, and then nods slightly. "Ideally, yes."

"I admire your objectivity."

"Tell me you brought him back for a reason other than sentimental." Q knows he won't like the answer, but asks anyway. "Tell me there's a mission only he can accomplish."

"Would you like me to lie to you?"

"There's blood in his eyes." Q is an excellent judge of character. He has to be. His job, his survival, his livelihood depends on it. He has spent mere hours with Bond, and can see him for exactly what he is. There are disloyal agents, the psychopathic and the occasional well-balanced ones. And then there are agents just waiting to go on a warpath, to go ape shit in the name of revenge. "Please tell you see it."

M's silence makes Q's skin crawl. All the physiological responses from his awkward as fuck childhood are coming back today.

"What would you like me to do with him?"

"Keep an eye on him." M follows Q's example and leans back in her chair. "Try to get him to talk."

"About what?"

"I don't know." M looks annoyed, "But he's keeping things. I know it."

"Ma'am, I need to know more than that." Q knows better than to feel frustrated. Patience is a virtue, especially when dealing with whatever damaged goods MI6 forces him to deal with on a regular basis. "I don't know what you've pulled out of the freezer, but if you want me to put it to good use, tell me something about it." His curiosity is killing him. All those years of chasing a ghost are going to explode in his face.

"He's difficult, and death follows him wherever he goes."

"He's also blond and has blue eyes. That's intel I managed to gather all on my own."

"I don't know what to do with him."

"You should have just killed him when you had the chance." The headache intensifies.

"I couldn't kill him because of emotional weakness, and I couldn't risk him going rogue. I froze him out of desperation, because I was out of my depth. He would have destroyed everything in his rage. He was inconsolable."

"Then why defrost him now? What exactly can I do for him, that M herself couldn't?"

"Your success rate with agents is incredible." M gives Q a calculating look. "You have this blank, unassuming manner. You put people at ease. Agents trust you; let their guard down around you. A mission's chances of success are much higher if you are involved."

"I'm a good quartermaster." Q states a fact. There is no place for arrogance in this job. Arrogance gets one killed.

"The Q before you was a good quartermaster." M amends Q's statement, "You are in a league of your own. Bond is a similar case. He's exceptional, even amongst double-ohs."

Attractive, tortured and murderous. Q hasn't seen anything in Bond that he hasn't seen about a few hundred times but he doesn't argue with M.

M's smile is so small, Q almost misses it, even when he's sitting right in front of her. "When I made you Q fifteen years ago, I thought I sent you to your own grave, but I was wrong. This job put you together. You became a person here. You thrive here, amongst killers and gadgets."

"I don't appreciate the profiling, ma'am."

"You have stamina. You can keep up with him."

"He's at physical perfection. I start hyperventilating when I climb two flights of stairs."

"Mentally. Bond has a way of testing his handlers. He likes playing mind games."

"Shocking." Q says dryly, and then has a stunning moment of realization. "You're asking me to fix him."

M doesn't confirm or deny.

"Interesting." Q ignores the throbbing in his head. "Why?"

"You want me to explain my attachment to him?"

"For heaven's sake, no." Q shakes his head, and then regrets it immediately, "I don't care what you feel for him; but a backstory would be nice."

"No."

"Why me?"

"You are very good at what you do, Q."

"I'm not fishing for compliments," Q blinks slower, his face feels warm. A fever is on the horizon perhaps. "You won't share. Fine. I will."

M shifts in her chair. It looks as if she is settling in for quite a tale.

"When I was in uni, a friend's father came to visit me on campus. His daughter was a heroin addict, and he wanted me to help her quit. He had tried everything, rehab, detox, what have you. He thought I could get through to her. Talk her out of shooting poison up her veins. Restart her life. I grew up with her. Who better to bring her innocence back then a childhood friend."

"Were you able to help her?"

"No," Q scoffs, "Of course not. But her father thought I could save his doomed daughter. People always assume I'll have the same success with people that I will with broken computers. I am going to tell you what I told Chelsea's father, some people just can't be saved."

"I'm going to tell you what I'm sure the young girl's father told you. Do your best."

Q isn't disappointed to see M make a bad decision. He's actually kind of relieved. His faith in humanity's flaws is revived. He nods once and gets up. "Well, I better go get Bond and relieve Tanner."

"Don't bother. Bond will be waiting for you at home."

"Wonderful. Bond and Snow in the same space. That should end well."

"You talk to your cats. Maybe you should look into your own mental illness before you psychoanalyze anyone else."

Q takes a moment to steady himself after he stands. Headaches are one thing, but what Q really hates is how suddenly they come, and how they always come at the worst time. He's never prepared for headaches, and Q hates being unprepared for anything. If only there was a code, or an upgrade to remove whatever defect in Q's body that brings about this hell. "I would like to continue living in the delusional fantasy of sanity."

"It's one of the things I admire most about you, Q. Now if you could only pass some of that delusion on to Bond."

"I'll see what I can do, but no promises." Q tries doing that thing Bond did when adjusting his suit that made him look so effortlessly sophisticated, but only manages an awkward movement which makes M frown. "He doesn't seem like the suggestible kind."

* * *

Thanks for reading, and let me know how you feel about the chapter. All comments are most welcome.


	4. Chapter 4

Q doesn't understand what the underground structure he lives in was originally supposed to be, nor has he ever bothered to actually find out. He speculates that it started out as an emergency bunker of some kind and eventually evolved into the quartermaster's natural habitat. MI6 ended up building a giant structure on top of the bunker, to shield the thing from public eye.

The place is privately owned. Agents move in and out to keep up the pretense of an expensive apartment building, the price marketed so high that most civilians never dare to even think about trying to rent. MI6 employees move in, usually for an interval of six to twelve months, and move right back out again, only to be replaced by other employees due for their 'Q building rotation.' The only person who hasn't moved in fifteen years is Q himself.

Outsiders, or 'normals,' think the building to be some kind of singles rental complex, and that manages to chase even more people, mainly those with families, away and further alienate the structure. There is a fake selection process - Mallory glaring at the 'candidate' and asking uncomfortable questions until the person ultimately backs off – which is meant to get rid of the persistent idiots who think that the Q building is some kind of new-age, fashionable snob breeding ground, and want in on all the singles action which _must _be happening. The scariest part of the whole Q building phenomenon is the young men and women who approach Q on the street, hoping to charm their way into his pants and subsequently, the building, hoping that Q will put in a good word with the superintendent.

The building manages to be plain and stupidly eye-catching at the same time. It's painted a sad and dull shade of blue, a color which screams 'we are too rich for you peasants' as well as 'we are so fucking dull.'

The upstairs floors are carefully maintained with the perfect ambience. Employees look forward to their Q building rotation. It's something to be excited and delighted for. There are chandeliers at every corner, fancy carpeting and paintings as far as the eye can see, and biweekly parties which have become legendary at not only MI6, but amongst the single outsiders who continue to try and get into the building.

The basement apartment, however, is a different story because according to M's orders, no one without clearance is allowed to venture into the place. MI6 is not responsible for lost limbs or any decapitation that shall occur as a result of trespassing. The only person allowed to maintain anything down there is Q, who never has any time, so the cleanliness of the whole place is kind of shady. When Q initially moved into his bunker, it took about a year to get rid of the old man smell which seemed to permeate every inch of the underground space. On the bright side, Q did learn how to effortlessly get rid of any smell, no matter how pungent, ever, which is a handy skill to have when you need to dispose of a body. Considering that Q handles all the double-ohs, instant decomposition stank removal is a brilliant skill to have.

The entrance to the basement is old school spy movie inconspicuous. There is no way of knowing where the door to Q's apartments is unless you know exactly what you're looking for. Dainty little stairs lead down to what Q thinks is going to be his grave.

By the time Q arrives home, his temple throbs painfully at every step he takes, the sound of his own feet thunderous. Walking down stairs seems hazardous, and Q prays that he doesn't fall and that if he does, nobody discovers him until he dies.

Bond and Tanner are waiting beside Q's apartment door. Both men look fresh and comfortable (even when they're really not), which just makes Q feel even more frustrated in his pained state.

"I don't think I will ever get used to you like this." Tanner squints at Q as if trying to see a microscopic organism without a microscope. "You look like a model. This is appalling. Go back to being normal."

Q sighs as he places his hand on the scanner. The door buzzes open with a quiet, barely audible buzz. "I doubt there is anyone in MI6 who has more of a problem with my usual appearance than you."

"You look so clean. It's wrong. I was trying to get you to shower on a regular basis. I didn't expect or want a complete 360." Tanner straightens his suit and starts walking up the stairs, smooth movements but choppy and uneven compared to Bond's earlier stride toward their attackers. "Gentlemen," He nods at Q and Bond before he departs.

"Thanks for babysitting." Bond calls out behind him sarcastically. "I had the best time."

Q leads Bond into his abode. The whole apartment is a disorderly mess. Predictably, Bond doesn't care for the décor. "Charming." Bond sneers at what he guesses every college-aged boy's apartment in present times looks like.

"I don't have time to clean. They won't let cleaning staff down here." Q has said this line thousands and thousands of times. Every single agent important enough to be allowed into Q's habitat hears these statements. "Intelligent minds thrive in entropy. This is an organized chaos. I know exactly where everything is."

"I've seen barns more organized than this."

"We have roommates." Q manages to warn Bond before Snow jumps into his arms out of nowhere, _flying cat attack, _and greets him with the proper love and appreciation he deserves after the day he's had. Nine, the bugger, ignores Q completely in favour of trotting over to Bond and rubbing a furry face against his leg.

"Friendly." Bond's smile is so miniscule, Q almost misses it.

_He's not friendly. _Q thinks, genuinely worried, _dear god, is Nine developing a dissociative personality like 009? Do cats have split personality disorders?_

"Hello." Bond gets down on one knee. Nine jumps into his arms, as if greeting an old friend in a long awaited homecoming.

"Nine, 007." Q introduces the two, even though he feels he doesn't really need to because the two are honest to god embracing. "007, nine."

"Pleasure." Bond strokes the cat gently and then lets him back down. Nine gazes up at the man adoringly.

"Snow." Q holds the pristine white cat out at Bond.

Bond gives the queen a shrewd look. "Is she deaf?" Blue-eyed, white cats have a reputation for having medical problems.

"Remarkably," Q lets Snow down, who completely dismisses Bond and walks past him with an arrogant huff. "No. Her hearing is much, much better than ours. She aids in security. A vampire managed to break into apartment 20C last month and Snow saved Agent Annabelle's neck. Both literally and figuratively. No one enters or leaves this building without Snow knowing about it."

Bond glares at Snow, and if Q wasn't in excruciating agony, and his skull didn't feel as if spontaneously combusting, he would burst out giggling. The most formidable agent MI6 has ever had, eyeing angelic Snow with open hostility. "She's harmless." Q lets the agent know. "She's my best friend."

"Saddest thing I have ever heard, easily."

"She is a great listener, and knows me better than anyone."

"Just getting sadder."

"I would even go as far as to say she's my soul-mate."

"For the love of god," Bond actually looks pained. "Just stop."

"You're going to be living here. I want to go over the rules."

"I won't be here long," Bond, who is so much larger than life, a supposed myth personified – looks completely ordinary in Q's apartment. Above average attractiveness, sure, but there is nothing about Bond's appearance which denotes his legendary status. The blood on his perfectly-cut clothes is just as red as any other agent's. That man is painfully human… and used. Everything about Bond screams _used._

"M said there was a case waiting for me." The ice-cold gaze, which looks as if it could freeze blood, scares Q, but not as much as it would have just a few years back. He has lost his ability to respond to fear triggers normally. All MI6 employees eventually do.

"Do you really think," Q does what he's been aching to do for hours, and takes off his glasses. His vision is suddenly unsettlingly unclear, but the tension in the back of his skull eases just a little bit. "That I would let M send you out into the field? How incompetent of a quartermaster do you think I am?"

Bond stares at Q for a brief, silent, second, and that pause says more to Q than any word ever could. "I answer to M, and M alone."

"I…" Q adds a pause of his own, "Handle the double-oh section. I am your handler. You think yourself a special little snowflake because you are M's favourite, but don't forget yourself. You are my problem."

"You have a spine. I'll give you that."

"Don't ever go in my room." Q trudges over to his favourite chair and lets himself fall into its waiting, loving arms. "I share a lot of myself with you lot, but that is my sanctuary, and no agent is allowed in. Anywhere else is fair game."

Bond just stares at Q in what should be an unnerving gaze, but Q is immune to double-oh intimidation tactics.

"No sex."

Bond gets that same look every agent always gets when rule number two is declared. One of deep, hilarious amusement.

Q ignores the sheer joy in Bond's expression. That blond head is full of mocking jokes just aching to get out. "You want to fuck around, you do it outside. You let me put a tracker on you, and you find yourself a bar, and a nice girl gone bad for the night, and you give her the night of her life. The night she will remember every time she's intimate with her husband."

"Alright." Bond says slowly, as if speaking to the mentally ill.

"Last but not least." Q massages his forehead slowly, in a firm circular motion that alleviates the pain for a precious second, only for it to return just as quickly as it disappeared. "No sex with me."

Bond has to pinch himself quite painfully to not burst out in loud, joyous laughter.

"I look scrawny and asexual now," Q says knowingly, "but even I will start to look tasty when you are all injured after a mission, and don't have the strength or the patience to go find yourself a hot little number. You could also wake up in the middle of the night with a sex craving and try to get me to take satisfy it for you. Not happening." Q says firmly and then gestures to his lower limbs. "These legs stay closed. I'm not here to service you."

Bond can't take it anymore. A ticklish chuckle starts building in his chest, and before he knows it, he's positively shaking with mirth.

"All you double-ohs think it's okay to try whatever alpha behavior you've picked up in the field," Q ignores the sniggering man in front of him and continues, "It's because I'm young. I bet you anything, no one tried these mating rituals with the Q before me."

Bond thinks of the Q of his time, the elderly man who was the very picture of sternness and professionalism. The very thought of seducing him makes Bond's laughter die. Compared to him, this modern incarnation of Q is a downright siren.

"My head's about to explode." Q admits with a soft sigh. "And you have a concussion. We can't sleep. I better start some Earl Grey."

"Glad to see some things have stuck around from my time."

"Earl Grey will be around forever." Q states confidently. "I also have coffee, and anything else with caffeine you could possibly think of."

"Earl Grey is fine."

"Go shower." Q orders Bond and then addresses Nine. "Show him where the guest bedroom is, please."

To Q's surprise, Nine agrees. The cat refuses to show any kind of consideration to agents or anyone ever, and even goes as far as to hiss and claw at people when they try to get close (Q's mother thinks the cat is Satan; the malicious feline ruined her new shutters the last time Q brought him over to visit. Nine has _not _been invited back since), but Bond seems to have triggered some kind of civility in the furry little monster.

Bond starts to follow the cat and tells the creature "Thank you," when they reach the guest bedroom which quartermasters have reserved for visiting agents since the dawn of MI6. Nine bids Bond a deep, adoring purr, and then disappears from view.

"Nice meeting you too." Bond mutters and enters the well-decorated room. The place is clearly better maintained than the rest of the apartment. Well-laundered sheets look extremely inviting, and Bond wants to do nothing more than to fall into them and pass out. But the pesky quartermaster will surely follow him and force him into wakefulness because of his concussion, and that's not something he cares to deal with right now.

The things he bought earlier today are waiting for him courtesy of Tanner, and Bond suddenly feels better about his situation, even if only marginally. Money buys luxury, and while the style he was familiar with may have up and disappeared, the sheer deliciousness of classy clothes and elegant cufflinks are timeless. Instantly, Bond feels the familiar rush something as simple as spending always brings him. No matter what time he wakes up in, he will always have his suits. That's something he can always cling to.

For now, the man picks some comfortable sweats, or in designer world, inanely posh pajamas, and lets himself in the bathroom. It takes him an annoying second to figure out the shower controls, but the hot water which effortlessly releases the tension from his aching shoulders makes the extra effort more than worth it. It feels heavenly, and the old, antique smell which has been clinging to him all day finally goes away.

He should wash, and shampoo, but his body refuses to move away from the blistering, yet comforting spray of perfect hot water and actually retrieve said items from the shelf they sit on. Pleased groans escape him involuntarily. The only thing which could add to this perfection would be a nice set of smooth, long legs wrapped around his waist. Bond briefly considers actually going out and finding a nice, tight body, but his body can't even conjure the strength to move enough to grab the bar of soap a few feet away, let alone dress up and go out into this unfamiliar time period, and use his outdated mannerisms to convince a girl to go to a hotel room with him. The very thought is exhausting.

Five minutes into the glory that is this shower, and a banging noise alerts Bond. Q's voice calls out his name, imploring him to answer. Bond doesn't. Partly because he doesn't want to, partly because his throat feels too tired for speaking, and mainly because he wants to see what the young quartermaster will do.

Loud cursing is heard outside, and the sound of a set of keys clinking disheartens Bond deeply. He was hoping to see scrawny Q make a spectacle of himself for his amusement and try to break down the door. But it seems that countless agents have recovered in this basement, and young Q has prepared for the possibility that an agent will eventually pass out in the bathroom, and he will have to retrieve their unconscious arse. A set of keys are probably always on his person.

Q opens the door, and gives Bond a deeply disappointed look. "You should have answered. I thought you hit your head on the bathtub and died."

"Give me some credit." Bond smirks at the young man, and the faint flush that could be a result of the steam, but Bond chooses to think it's the hazy sight of his naked body. "My death won't be that pitiful."

"You have a concussion." Q seems unfazed by the other man's nudity, but the faint flush is still there, even when the steam has cleared. "If you want to die in a spectacular show of violent explosions like most double-ohs do, instead of a guest bathroom, you will have to cooperate with me tonight, and make sure you don't fall asleep."

"Do you mind?"

Bond gestures to the clothes he has left hanging on the hook behind the door, and Q complies after a slow second, and hands Bond the pajamas, but not before whistling, impressed. "These things are softer than a baby's behind."

"Real cotton, you should try it."

"I am fine with my synthetic nylon-polyester blend, thank you very much."

Bond towels himself off, and slips into the clothing. Q's eyes never leave him. "I hope you are enjoying the show.

"You're a blur without my glasses. Your modesty is safe."

"I don't mind an audience."

"Why are all double-ohs so slutty?"

"Why are all quartermasters so asexual?"

"If I bend over for every faultlessly fetching agent that vacations in my apartment, I would have more semen inside me on a regular basis than Kim Kardashian."

"Who?"

"You are better off not knowing who that is." Q tries to step out of Bond's way in his half-blind condition, but manages to bump into a muscular chest anyway. "Basically someone who fucks around more than you, but for reasons nowhere near as noble."

"Why thank you."

"Don't get all flattered. You're still a whore, even if you spread it for Queen and country."

Bond grabs slender shoulders, and leads the much younger man outside. "My tea better be ready."

"Yes, but if you want it, you better pour it for yourself. I'm not putting my spectacles back on."

"Do your glasses really bother you that much?"

"Not usually, but migraines do wonders for my body."

Q lets Bond lead him back to the living room. Bond feels ashamed at the sheer surprise he feels at the sight which is waiting for them when they get there, and proud that he doesn't show any of it. The bloodied body on Q's couch isn't the worst Bond has seen, but it's enough to chase any remnants of sleepiness he might be feeling. His entire body is suddenly wired with energy.

"Ugh," Q sighs and addresses Bond, "Be a dear, and get my glasses."

Bond complies, and even goes as far as to place the frames on that unsettlingly delicate face. While quartermasters are not exactly hired for their brawn, and never meant to fight or charge forth into battle, they should still never be thought of as delicate.

Q hisses when his brain is forced to project a clear image onto his extremely strained eyes, and that effort, coupled with the sheer migraine he's experiencing, makes for one torturous combination.

"It's okay." Q tells the woman bleeding on his couch firmly when he's certain he's not going to fall down. "You are going to be okay." He then points to a corner of the living room. "Bond, get that white box for me."

The woman, a lovely number with lush dark-brown hair and the clearest green eyes Bond has ever seen, grits her teeth, "Just take it out. Take it out of me." Modesty be damned, she has her bloodied shirt pulled down, and her shoulder looks wrecked. Bond only gives the joint a side-eyed glance in his haste, but something flashes in the bloodied wound. The sight is alarming.

Q nods once and removes a knife from sterile packaging, once his hands are gloved, from what appears to be a distorted version of a first aid kit. Bond hasn't known the man long, but knows that the instrument looks wrong in those clever hands. So very wrong.

"Hold your breath." Q orders and before Bond can blink, the sterile knife pierces the woman's right shoulder, at an angle, that Bond assumes is correct because Q seems to know what he's doing.

The woman's bright green eyes water, and her delicate red lips get even redder, much redder than the rouge lipstick she's wearing. She has bitten her bottom lip so hard, it's bleeding.

Q makes a triumphant sound when he removes a flashing bullet. Bond blinks. He's never seen a bullet blink different colors before. "I will analyze this at a later time. For now, get yourself to medical, 004."

The woman nods. The panic and fear on her face has drained away, clearly the bullet was the cause of it. She gives Q a look which Bond interprets as both appreciative and peeved. "I was hoping I could stay here."

"Room's full." Q looks up at Bond, and 004 looks startled, but the expression change is so infinitesimal, Bond wouldn't have caught it if he wasn't double-oh himself. He nods at her, but the woman doesn't return the greeting, only adjusts her bloodied blouse so it covers her mess of a shoulder.

Q doesn't seem to be too concerned about the miserable agent on his couch, or the blood stains he's going to have to deal with later. For now, he just gives the flashing bullet between his gloved index finger and thumb a deeply fascinated look. "You're lucky this thing didn't have a chance to do its thing or you would be dead right now. I can't wait to see what kind of poison it contains. Well done, 004."

"I am so glad I was of service." The woman's tone is both sarcastic and venomous, but again, is completely disregarded by Q. "I guess I should be leaving now."

"Let me put a bandage on it," Q says absentmindedly as he produces a small, plastic bag and carefully places the bullet inside it. "Thank god this thing doesn't have a tracker in it. It would have led them straight here. Be careful next time, 004."That said, Q disappears into the kitchen, and the woman is left glaring after him.

Bond is startled when she addresses him before she gets up. "You're new."

Bond doesn't confirm or deny. He lets her come to her own conclusions.

"You must be good. I had decades of experience before I started answering to Q."

"I do alright."

"They should have started you out with an easier handler. Q's very cold. You're not ready for someone like him."

"…"

004 interprets the bored look on Bond's face as masked confusion. "He will not hesitate to sacrifice you for the sake of the mission."

"He's Q." Bond doesn't mean to defend his new roommate, "It's in his job description."

"I know." The woman snaps just before she steps out. "I'm warning you out of professional courtesy. Don't go by his appearance. He's a monster."

"Where'd she go?" Q asks nonchalantly when he returns five minutes later with what appear to be bandages.

"Got pissy over your lack of concern and left."

"Concern?" Q rolls his eyes and then immediately regrets the action, his skull punishes him with another excruciating throb, "If she wants to be coddled she came to the wrong place."

Bond watches as Q leaves again and returns with fresh gloves and a spray of some kind. "Homemade," Q holds the chemicals up proudly. "Excellent for fresh blood."

"Experience as a professor _and _housekeeping skills?" Bond makes a show of sarcastic eagerness. "Could you _be_ more qualified to be a quartermaster?"

"FYI," Q continues talking as he scrubs the couch, and true to his word, the blood starts to disappear, only to leave cream colored silky material behind. "When you're injured, don't come straight here. If that thing had a tracker, I would have been screwed. Protocol dictates you take your ass to medical."

"She's was obviously looking for a familiar face."

"Trust me," Q lets out a happy sigh when his sofa is clear of all pesky stains. "She's been to medical enough times to find them familiar."

Q's back cracks when he gets up and stretches. Stubble is starting to appear on that youthful face, and Bond is starting to see the perfectly pressed façade from when they just met a few hours ago start to crack. "It's lovely that I have the bullet though. Some nurses in medical are so absentminded. They lose precious evidence all the time. Or maybe they purposefully misplace it just to annoy the ever-loving life out of me. Tea?" Since Q's glasses are on, he ends up pouring for both of them, and hands Bond a cup.

"Caffeine can make pain relieving medicine as much as 40 percent more effective." Q informs Bond when he hands him his paracetamol, and some codeine for himself.

"You always take narcotics to treat your headaches?" Bond says, unsettled, when Q sits down on the couch 004 was bleeding on just a few minutes ago.

"At this point," Q swallows his pill with a big sip of his lukewarm tea, "Morphine couldn't even take my pain away. Codeine is fucking useless."

"You should bath." Bond says after chugging his own cup of tea within seconds. No time to savor, he needs caffeine in him now. His body wants to sleep, but his concussion will not let that happen. "Hot water will do you good."

"You have a concussion. I can't leave you out here."

"You don't have to."

Q chews his bottom lip for a second, "You promise you won't peek?"

"What exactly is there to peek at?"

"I'm attractive."

"Of course," Bond says soothingly. "I will try to fight the temptation of your sinfully tantalizing flesh."

Q stands up, his cup half empty. There is a worrying moment when it seems he won't be able to keep himself upright, but the dizzying wave of pain passes, and the dull throbbing returns to take its place.

Bond eyes the slender body, concerned. M loves to take risks when selecting agents, but her choices for quartermasters used to be safer and risk-free. The person handling the department's armory needs to be of sound body and mind, but this young, fresh creature, with his thin bony wrists and wide eyes looks as if a swift wind will knock him over.

"You have no right to mock me." Q says good-naturedly after he's stabilized himself on his feet and starts shuffling toward his bedroom. "Sure, I'm not handsome in an obvious sort of way."

"There are other ways to be handsome?"

"I can't think of any right now, but of course," Q stops outside his bedroom door. "Close your eyes."

"Seriously?"

"I told you, my bedroom, my sanctuary."

Bond sighs as if dealing with a particularly difficult toddler, and obliges the younger man in his company.

Q grabs a muscular forearm, and starts leading Bond through his room.

"Careful."

"Don't step on that."

"Two steps to your right. That's a good boy."

Bond opens his eyes when he's in the bathroom.

"You promised not to peek." Q reminds Bond as he settles the older man down on the bench that seems to be too conveniently placed. "Sit blindly." A small pause. "But let me know if you feel funny."

"Funny." Bond repeats blandly.

"You know…" Q makes an odd gesture with his wrist, "Pain, dizziness, etcetera."

"You mean," Bond allows Q to push him down on the plush, comfortable bench. "Exactly the symptoms you are experiencing at this very moment."

"That's my boy." Q places a palm on Bond's frontal bone, and in a swooping motion, forces the older man to close his eyes.

Bond doesn't understand how a man can be such a prude. Q's extreme modesty is kind of a shock, even surpassing the stereotype of an asexual quartermaster.

Just the simple act of closing his eyes feels divine. Bond has no clue why he's so tired. After all, he did just wake from a stupidly long sleep. Absolutely no part of his body feels rested. The concussion shouldn't have this severe of an effect. His body is designed to heal faster than normal population, and yet tonight, he feels as if he can feel himself fading. Frailty, thy name is humanity.

So lost is Bond in his daze, he almost misses the sound of the shower turning off. After the faint sound of rustling clothes, Bond waits for Q to grab his shoulder and lead him outside. When nothing happens, blue eyes open, and Bond swears at the sight that greets him. "Q," He lunges across the bathroom and grabs the younger man's shoulders before he can slide down against the tiles. "Wake up."

No response. A quick check of Q's pulse let's Bond know that he is alive and well. Breathing and eye movements are stable. It seems to be an exhaustive trance, the body's way of shutting itself down when pushed to its limits.

Drops of water trickle down the back of Bond's neck when he hoists the unconscious body on one shoulder in a fireman carry, his broad hand seems to span the supple flesh of Q's thighs completely, and Bond gets that disconcerting feeling again. The stunning realization that his quartermaster's just a boy, because Bond sure as hell wouldn't have been able to carry the previous Q this easily, at least not without straining his back. The sharp, masculine angles scream 'malnourished,' and the flinch away from Bond's touch – even in deep unconsciousness - 'virgin.'

Bond climbs out of the tub, holding the man close to his body, taking extra care not to bang the skull that houses the godly brilliant mind against anything. While Bond can afford to get a concussion and lose some brain cells, Q needs every single one of those neurons actively working at all times.

He can't afford to carry Q outside with his eyes closed, especially into a room he has never seen, because the last thing he needs is Q falling from his arms. The boy seems so breakable, Bond has no reason to believe he won't seriously injure himself even after falling on a carpeted floor.

Bond grunts when he adjusts Q in his arms, the brief second when they are chest to chest brings Bond's lips a few centimeters away from Q's.

Even when those pretty hazel eyes are closed, Q manages to be… pretty. Bond wonders if Q's androgyny is sudden, or is he just noticing it now when they are in such close proximity. Why does a man have lips which are such an attractive shade of pink, while the rest of his skin is so pale in contrast? How can he have lashes that are so dark and thick?

Bond finds himself transfixed, his senses strain in concentration. A sigh escapes Q's generously pouty lips. The scent of the man, a mix of soap, and something heady, seems to threaten to trigger something inside Bond that is beyond normal sexuality, something James chooses not to explore out of fear for his sanity. A deep rooted self-perseveration instinct awakens and Bond suddenly can't wait to be away from the younger man. Grunting with the effort that it takes to shift Q from his chest to his arms bridal style, Bond carefully places Q on top of his sheets. Normally, such a shift would wake an MI6 employee, but Q stays deeply asleep, pouty lips stay relaxed, and almost smiling. Dark lashes gently dust pale cheeks. Troubled by Q's lack of reaction – such a deep sleeper for a spy - Bond covers Q with a comforter.

_I can't believe I just tucked my quartermaster into bed. _Bond thinks disbelievingly, as Q nuzzles deeper into his cocoon of blankets, shivering slightly. His hair, still wet from the shower, never loses its messy state. Ruffled, in a comfortable cotton shirt which proudly declares "keep calm and rub some bacon on it" along with the picture of a cartoon pig.

Bond takes a moment to look around Q's room, despite firm orders not to. He can see why Q would want to keep agents out of here. There are no ultra-rare gadgets, or even anything worth hiding, but it's a place where Q is at his most vulnerable, and Bond understands. He doesn't recognize the movie posters on the wall, they are after his time. There is no paperwork anywhere, no blueprints, computers, or even weapons. There is nothing of 'Q' in this bedroom, just the personality of whoever Q used to be before he became quartermaster. Clothes are thrown everywhere haphazardly. A shelf full of books. A closet door not quite fully closed.

A soft meow alerts Bond of Snow's presence. Bond looks down at where the queen is watching him accusingly. She clearly doesn't approve of the agent trespassing in Q's room.

"I'm leaving." Bond rolls his eyes at the cat's defensive posture. "He's supposed to be watching me, you know." He hisses at the feline before he shows himself out. "I have a concussion."

Blue eyes meet blue before Bond closes the door behind himself very, very softly. He doesn't know why he bothers, not even a hurricane could wake Q from his extremely worn-out state.

* * *

"Bond."

Blue eyes startle awake from their doze.

"Over here."

Bond cranes his neck around, and sees M's image on what he assumes is one of those new timey computers. The ones which are so disconcertingly thin and sleek. Slowly removing himself from the couch, Bond walks over to Q's desk and sits down in front of M.

"Handy, isn't it?" M smiles at Bond's lack of reaction to what should be a startling discovery of modern technology. "We can communicate anywhere as long as we're on the same planet."

Bond narrows his eyes. "We have conquered other planets?"

"Within reason. The gas giants are too unstable for us to explore."

When Bond doesn't respond, M continues. "How are you?"

"Considering the circumstances, I'm doing quite fine."

"I expect nothing less."

Bond knows he should give it a rest, but it's bothering him. "This boy shouldn't be Q."

"He's extraordinary in every sense of the word." M says, "You won't believe how many time he's saved my neck, let alone the rest of MI6. Give him a chance. He will ruin you for other quartermasters. The rest of the double-ohs don't even bother reaching out to anyone but him."

"I believe…" Bond pauses because this is truly difficult for him to admit, "That he is more than competent as a quartermaster."

"He's the best we've ever had."

For M to praise someone, let alone so highly, leaves no doubt in Bond's mind that the boy sleeping like a baby just twenty feet away is terribly capable. "He's soft."

"He always acts in the best interests of MI6. He would never coddle agents. If anything, he's tougher than previous Q's."

Bond is reminded of the frustrated expression on 004's face as Q casually dismissed her bleeding self. "He deals with agents apathetically. That's not an issue."

"Then what exactly is your problem?"

"There is a cartoon pig on his shirt." Bond says after a pause which lasts several moments.

"What?"

"I can't explain it any better than that."

"His attire does leave much to be desired." M wrinkles her nose distastefully. "I have reprimanded him. He is trying to look more professional. It's more than we can ask for."

Bond sighs, clearly M has misconstrued him, and he can't fault her. He hasn't explained himself well. The problem isn't the lack of professional clothing, or the cartoon pig, it's what the cartoon pig symbolizes: traces of innocence and vulnerability, traces which have managed to linger despite MI6's influence. "And if an enemy gets a hold of him?"

M's look stays cautiously blank.

"The previous Q," Bond remembers the man who handled double-ohs in his time, "I assume he was taken, and tortured. He didn't surrender any information and was allowed to return. He was deemed fit for duty because he somehow managed to pass your psychiatric evaluations." At M's silence, Bond smirks, "That's the thing with geniuses, they can fake sanity, even when they couldn't define it to save their lives."

"Bond." M starts to say.

"He killed himself, didn't he?"

"I know where you are going with this."

"Q is half of his predecessor's size, and a tenth of his age." The next words are the most difficult to say. "He's also…" A moment to carefully think over his next words.

"He's also…" M prompts Bond. "Finish your thoughts."

Bond doesn't know how to say it. "If this younger Q gets captured…" He thinks of the slender, and in the right light, even sensual young man sleeping inside, "He will definitely…" Bond can't say it, so he speaks in reference to himself. "I was raped countless times in the field and I'm the strongest agent you have ever had."

The sudden realization on M's face would be deeply satisfying if not in regards to this dark matter. In this context, it's just morbid. "Bond…" M starts to say. "I deeply regret everything you…"

Bond swiftly cuts her off. She is possibly the closest person to him, ever, and to see her try to take responsibility for horrors that are unfortunately, an inherent part of this job is truly unbearable. "It's something that most agents will have to deal with over the course of their career. The question is, are you willing to put this…" helpless, breakable, frail, "quartermaster through all that? There was a kidnapping attempt today. I think it's pretty clear they were targeting Q. I would have been nothing but a consolation prize."

"You were both foolish enough to get into a car without checking if it was safe. You both had it coming."

"I got in because Q got in." Bond snaps. "I had just woken up. I was disoriented as hell."

"You tell yourself whatever you need to." M smirks knowingly.

"What if I wasn't with him?"

M seems to be carefully deliberating over her next words. "I told you I had a mission for you."

"Oh?" Bond huffs arrogantly. "Boy wonder said I wasn't allowed to go out into the field."

"He's right. You're not. You need to get used to present times, and Q needs constant protection because he's being targeted. I'm assigning you as his bodyguard."

"Ugh," Bond lets out an annoyed noise. "I suppose it's better than nothing."

"It most definitely is. Don't let anything or anyone get to him. You are now his shadow."

"I understand how babysitting works, thank you."

"You are also in charge of his well-being."

"Excuse me?"

"His bones are sticking out through those inappropriate shirts he wears. He's isn't eating or bathing regularly. He has debilitating migraines he attempts to work through."

"He has to. Q branch rests on his shoulders, and you have him handling double-ohs."

"He is wasting away. Your physical fitness has always been the envy of MI6. Help him."

"I am an orphan. Why am I being assigned as a young boy's mother?"

"This has to be the thousandth kidnapping attempt on Q, and his guard still isn't up. He's still careless, both of his health, and his safety. You are the best agent we have, and he's the most targeted one. Why not put you two together?"

Bond grits his teeth. It makes perfect sense; M is nothing if not logical. But his natural instinct is to object against every order he's ever given and he does. "I want a real mission."

"And if you behave, someday you will get one… You answer to Bond now, not 007."

"I take it I am double-oh 7 no more?"

"You will always be 007." M says firmly, and Bond's breathe hitches. "I even issued a new rule. No M will be able to replace your designation."

Not knowing what to say to that, Bond mumbles a 'good night' and before he can get up from the desk, M says the most disturbing thing of all, "Q's not so bad. He will definitely grow on you."

That said, the connection severs, and the screen goes blank. Bond is left, stunned. He doesn't know what act Q has been putting on for M, but it is definitely working. If Bond didn't know any better, he would even say that Q is M's favourite.

Nine is back, and he is sitting in the warmth of the spot where Bond was attempting to stay awake. Purring gently, the cat lets Bond pick him up and then burrows into his stomach happily when he sits back down on the couch.

"At least you're here to watch me." Bond rubs Nine's belly, and smirks when he purrs. "I have a concussion, you know. Someone should keep an eye on me."

Nine lets out delighted meows, and doesn't even mind when Bond's hand stills after he dozes off.


	5. Chapter 5

"I am guessing my protests at having been assigned a babysitter will be heartlessly disregarded."

M looks up from her mountain of paperwork for the day and gives Q a deeply pleased look. "You look stunning."

"He wouldn't let me leave until I showered." Q knows he's whining. He doesn't care. "He learned how to use an iron and then he pressed my clothes. The tie I am wearing is his. He forced me to have breakfast."

"Of course that tie isn't yours." M says, "You wouldn't even know where to purchase such a thing. What did you have?"

"He forced me to teach him how to turn the stove on, and then he made me an omelette."

Q sees an emotion he's never seen on M's face: envy. "He never could cook much but what he does make is flawless. I begged him to show me how he makes them but he refused. Did you happen to see what he did to the eggs?"

Q makes an embarrassed noise. "He made me leave the kitchen when I tried to write anything down before the second helping."

"Don't you have a camera installed in the kitchen?" M actually looks kind of furious with Q. "What kind of quartermaster are you? Your security has gone to hell. Install a bloody camera before he makes anything else. If you miss his chocolate cake I will have you murdered."

Q ignores the deeply frightening threat and continues to whine. "He forced his way into my room and threw out half my closet."

"He should have thrown out all of it."

"I don't want agents in my room. That's my sanctuary!"

"Are you bloody serious?" M narrows her eyes and Q suddenly feels four inches tall. "You are being hunted. To hell with your sanctuary."

"He's being too intrusive."

"As a quartermaster, you know exactly what a double oh agent's protective detail entails."

"There should be boundaries." Q wants to placate the angered boss but he will fight this as much as he can.

"Boundaries?" M's temper continues to flare but she controls herself, she has always treated Q with considerably more gentleness than anyone else, and now is not the time to stop her preferential treatment. "The spare bedroom in your apartment is a guest bedroom. It's reserved for agents on active field duty. Bond shouldn't be sleeping in there."

"Then where is he supposed to sleep?" Q looks so adorably confused; M has this bizarre urge to pat his head. "I suppose I can give him my bed. My sanctuary is already ruined. I can take the sofa."

"You should both be sleeping in the same room, Q." M shakes her head at the naiveté in those young hazel eyes. "He's your shadow."

"Do you really believe I need that kind of protection? My mother was less paranoid, and she once tackled a teacher after school because she thought he was trying to kidnap me."

"I like your mother."

"You would." Q nods in understanding. "You two would get along swimmingly."

"I'm not paranoid enough." M holds up a file with numbers on it which she will use as a weapon against Q. "There have been forty-two kidnapping attempts on you in the last year alone."

"_Unsuccessful_ attempts." Q makes sure to put a deep emphasis on 'unsuccessful.'

"It only takes one."

"Do I really need a double-oh agent protecting me?"

"Do you have a problem with 007?"

"Of course not. I just don't think such an extreme measure is needed. 007 is a gifted agent. He could be out doing something important."

"This _is _important." M actually looks offended at Q's disregard for his security. "This is our highest priority."

"I beg to differ." Q knows he should stop arguing with M, that this is a losing quarrel. He should stop pushing and take orders like a good subordinate. Unfortunately, his argumentative streak rears its head at the worst possible times, and against the worst possible people. "I can think of ten matters off the top of my head, and about fifty terrorists that are more important than my security."

M's expression goes from furious to thunderous, and Q suddenly wants to scream '007' at the top of his lungs and hide behind Bond's massive shoulders. "More important than your security?" She whispers ominously, and Q fights the urge to make a run for it. M would have Bond chase him down, and the bastard would tackle Q for the sheer pleasure of it and his spine will surely crack under the sheer weight of the massive bastard.

"We have no idea what happened to the Q before you while he was kidnapped, but he committed suicide after we retrieved him. The Q before him was gang-raped for days on end before he gave up sensitive information and was executed for treason when he came back to us. The Q before him was beaten to death after enduring heinous torture which included genital mutilation…"

"Enough." Bond seems to have materialized beside Q out of nowhere, and grabs the younger man's trembling shoulders. "I'm sure he gets the point."

M is breathing deeply, staring at Q with a mixture of remorse, sorrow, and indignity. "You are brilliant at this. I don't regret bringing you into MI6, but I will be damned if I let you go through what your predecessors did. If you have a problem with having a bodyguard, feel free to hand in your formal resignation. You won't quite be free of us even after you leave here, but we will be sure to give you a new identity, and the target on your back will ease a little bit."

"That won't be necessary." Q will never admit it, even on his deathbed, but the grip Bond's huge hands have on his shoulders is the only thing keeping him upright. "I accept the protective detail."

"I'm sure you do." M takes pity on the red-faced young man in front of her. "You're dismissed, Q."

Q's brain doesn't seem to register M's command, and Bond has to lead him outside.

* * *

"Double-oh five reporting for duty." The red-haired man grins pleasantly at Q. His dimples on full display.

Q branch swoons at the sight of those blue-gray eyes. Q doesn't even bat an eyelash. "Your mission 005." He says and hands over a blank envelope. "Try not to lose your passport this time."

"Thanks." 005 winks and blows a kiss at Q. "Miss me." He says before he starts to walks out.

"Always." Q mutters blandly, and then calls out loudly. "Either you bring back that gun in one piece, or you don't come back at all."

"No," 005 turns around and starts walking backwards. "I love _you _more."

"I'm serious, 005." Q warns. "I don't have the budget to make you another one."

"If you need money you should just ask." 005 says, serious all of a sudden.

"Considering that your pay comes out of my budget that would be terribly pointless."

"I believe he's saying he wants you to dock his pay in favor of new weapons." Bond says from his corner.

"Thank you." 005 generously blows a kiss toward Bond. "Where did you get those shoes?" He manages to ask Bond, before Q snaps at him to 'get lost.'

After 005 is gone, Henry the flustered intern raises his hand. "Sir?"

"Yes, Henry." Q says patiently.

"We are you dressed so nice two days in a row?"

"I was reprimanded," Q snaps loudly at his entire crew, "Okay? The next person who asks will be fired."

Loud murmurs are his only response, until Priyanka adds her two cents. "You know, in my culture, when some women get married, they start dressing nicer to please their husbands."

"This isn't your culture." Q snaps at the girl.

"Is this man your husband?" William, who is sitting four feet away from Bond, asks.

"No he isn't." Q bites out. "He's been assigned as my bodyguard."

"Kind of fancy for a bodyguard. He's wearing double-oh level clothes." Priyanka eyes Bond's outfit (or in laymen's terms: shit average people can't afford) perceptively. "He's clearly a boy toy. Q paid for that suit."

Shankar, her twin brother, shakes his head. "No way. Boss is way too cheap to afford that suit."

"Is there going to be a post-wedding party?" Agents have been known to get married in secret, but there are usually office gatherings, even if small, to celebrate the nuptials.

"There _was _no wedding."

The most disturbing inquiry comes from the back of the room. "Is there a video of the wedding night?"

"Who said that?" Q barks out. "Tell me who said that so I can fire you."

"Why don't I have a bodyguard?" Shankar asks.

"Because no one wants to kidnap your useless arse." Q says hurtfully. "I'm the only one of you lot who knows anything important."

"We don't want to know anything. Keep it all to yourself." The same voice which inquired about Q and Bond's supposed wedding night calls out again.

"Don't make me come back there!" Q threatens.

"Double-oh 4 reporting for duty." A hush falls over the room as the pale as death agent limps in.

"I don't have anything for you," Q tells the agent. "Go home, 004."

"I am not leaving here without a mission."

"I have gotten everything I can from this," Q hands Shankar the drive he's been playing with for an hour. "Dispose of this, please."

"Sir." Shankar says respectfully.

"Outside." Q grabs 004's arm, and makes a grumbling sound when Bond is by his side in a second.

"You're a mess." Q says when he closes the door behind the three of them after they are in a quiet, sound-proof conference room most of MI6 uses to yell at each other. It's called the _Bitch Room _for a reason. "Stop punishing yourself. He's not coming back."

004 doesn't say anything, just lets Q lecture her quietly.

"I am not assigning you to anything until you have had counselling."

Those delicate red lips quirk up in an amused grin. "Counselling."

"I need proof that you're ready to go back out into the field."

"I'm ready."

"Damn it, woman." Q says, frustrated. "I didn't even know you were fucking him. How'd you both hide something this big and obvious from me?"

"We are your weapons, Q, and nothing more than that." 004 smirks. "We could have been dry humping in your own bed next to you, and you wouldn't have had a clue."

Bond chuckles and then laughs harder when Q glares at him.

"Give me something to do." 004 implores her handler. "I'll hang myself if I have to go home to that empty apartment. Everything there reminds me of him."

"You two were _living _together?" Q smacks his forehead. "What the ever-loving fuck?"

"We had chemistry. What do you want me to say?"

"Seriously, what the fuck?"

"You were the one person we weren't trying to hide from."

"You're a mess."

"I don't know where to go." She shrugs, and for one chilling second, she goes from being the most powerful woman Q has ever known, to a scared, lost little girl.

"The spare room freed up." Q says quietly. "Feel free to drop by."

"The spare room isn't free." Bond says firmly.

"Yes," Q glares, "It is."

004 gives the two men in her company a calculating look.

"You're staying with me until further notice." Q tells her, and before she leaves, calls out her name. "004."

She turns around, emerald eyes dead and bleak.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Q says and Bond winces at the awkwardness, but at least the statement is sincere.

"I'm sorry for yours." She turns back around. "He's a hell of an agent."

After she departs, Q turns to Bond. "Did you just hear what she said? _He's a hell of an agent. _Either 002 faked his own death, or she's still in deep grief and is having trouble accepting that he's gone forever."

"I'm not leaving." Bond crosses his arms. "Not until you resign, or M tells me otherwise."

"The guest bedroom is for field agents." Q sighs, suddenly finding the carpeting very, very interesting. "You will be sleeping in my room."

"Oh," Bond's tone is dry. "The sanctuary?"

"I get it." Q thinks of M's earlier rant, "The quartermaster is like the most sensitive, vulnerable agent. I suppose I need to be protected."

"You need to be shadowed." Bond still doesn't think Q gets the seriousness of the situation. "Don't even shower by yourself."

Q looks genuinely scared.

"The Q before you was kidnapped when he was showering."

"I know." Q remembers when he had to temporarily step in as his predecessor's replacement during the kidnapping. "As long as you promise not to peek."

Q seems to be so adamant at keeping his body safe from Bond's eyes, his curiosity peeks. "Do you have a tail hidden under there?"

"Ugh," Q's eyes glaze over when he thinks of 002 and 004. "Are all the double-ohs fucking each other right under my nose, or were these two the only ones?"

"Agents fuck each other all the time." Bond gives Q's arse a careful look, just in case there really is a tail attached. "Why are you so shocked?"

"Because I see everything." Q snaps. "I'm their handler. I'm in charge of their physical and mental well-being. If they're all fucking, then when one of them dies, I lose two because the other one's incapacitated with grief."

"If it makes you feel any better, most of the time it's just sexual relief." Bond shrugs, "At least that's how it was back in my day."

"Times have changed, grandpa. They're all romancing each other now… Maybe I should give another anti-fraternization seminar."

"You promote asexuality in others?"

"I need to." Q points to the chair 004 was sitting on, the back of the seat is wet with blood which seeped from her wound. "002 got himself killed, and now she will do the same in the name of revenge."

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

"She will come over tonight." Q looks hopelessly awkward again. "I need to console her, don't I?"

"I'm just glad I get to be there." Bond looks so happy, Q wants to cut him. "I can't wait to see how you heal her aching heart."

"Do you enjoy being a bastard?"

"It _does_ come naturally to me, I must admit."

"Sir?" Henry the flustered intern pokes his head in. "Am I interrupting."

"We were about to make sweet marital love." Bond informs Henry, and ignores Q's harsh elbowing.

Henry stammers when Bond addresses him. "S-sorry." He says and quickly steps out before Q can ask what he wants.

"You're the worst kind of person." Q declares darkly.

"What's his problem?"

"Henry grew up in a deeply religious environment." Q adjusts the glasses on his nose. "Only to realize later on that he's a homosexual. He's a nervous person by nature, but it's much, much worst around attractive men. Not to mention he still isn't out of the closet."

"He's nervous around attractive men?" Bond starts to follow Q as he starts walking. "What's he doing in MI6? Handsome spies in suits at every corner."

"I don't know." Q shrugs, "There are so many other deeply disturbed souls here. I bet he feels right at home."

"You really do enjoy psychoanalysis, don't you?"

"It's necessary." Q defends his tendency to pick people apart until they are nothing but walking piles of psychoses. "It's easier to deal with them that way. So many landmines in a personality. If there is a tool which helps me avoid them, where's the harm in that?"

"Then tell me," Bond backs Q into a corner, and it's really not fair how much bigger than Q he is. How Q can't even see beyond those wide shoulders. "What are my landmines?"

"Bond," Q says quietly, "Let me go."

"You think you're so clever." If Q thought Bond's eyes were cold before, they're positively giving him frostbites now. "Let me see it for myself. What are my triggers?"

"Bond."

"Analyze me, damn it."

Bond whispers right in Q's ear, and before he can help it, words slip out. "Well, considering what a fuss you made about my age last night, I'm guessing there was a lover around my age, in a similar profession, whom you failed to protect."

Q closes his eyes, like those times in the school yard, when bullies would converge on him, as if not seeing a threat could possibly make it disappear.

"Not bad."

Q opens his eyes when the punch he was expecting doesn't come, and suddenly Bond is standing further apart, not all up in his space like he was a moment ago.

"Not bad at all."

"Am I right?"

"You tell me." Bond smirks, and there's something hollow in that expression. Q has seen more emotion in corpses. "You're the pretend psychiatrist. Did I really let a lover die?"

"Not according to legend." Q leans against the wall he was forced against, and this is the second time today his knees feel weak. "007 always ends up saving the damsel in distress."

Bond barks out a laugh at that. "Who spreads all this rubbish anyway?"

"I don't know." Q admits. "I guess people started telling stories after you disappeared. Eventually truth mutated into legend. There is no real data, anywhere about you, and M won't answer a single question."

Bond makes an approving noise.

Q forces himself to stand up on his own. The migraine is mostly gone, which is a miracle because usually the hell lasts three days. There is still throbbing however, tolerable but annoying. "I'm guessing as soon as a person associates with you for too long, they sign their own death warrant."

"That's closer to the truth than whatever stories are circulating about me."

Q starts walking back to Q branch, but pauses when Bond doesn't follow.

"The question is," Bond's eyes just keep getting colder, if Q didn't know any better, the temperature of the hallway feels as if its dropping because of the twin pools of glacial abhorrence. "If your analysis of me is correct, are you signing your own death warrant by letting me get so close to you?"

"I started walking to my death the instant I accepted this job." Q admits, "You know what happened to other Q's. Rape, torture, suicide. We both know what's waiting for me at the end of the tunnel that is MI6. If anything, your involvement will slow the process down."

"I can't make any promises..." Bond starts walk toward Q.

"Then don't." Q looks up at Bond. It takes every bit of his strength to not walk backwards. Perhaps he's not as immune to double-oh intimidation tactics as he first thought. "You don't owe me anything."

"As long as you cooperate with me to your fullest capacity," Bond grabs that chin when the younger man tries to look away, "You should be safe."

"You're just trying to boss me around."

"Don't _ever_," Bond makes sure to put as much emphasis on the word as possible. "And I mean _ever, _go anywhere without me. If I have to hunt down autopsy pictures of previous Q's, I will. Your life is always in danger. Even double-oh agents have a longer life-span than quartermasters, and that's really saying something."

"Understood. I will cooperate."

Bond seems to be placated by Q's seemingly subservient answer, so Q thinks it's safe to add a quick, "Within reason." and starts walking back to Q branch before Bond has a chance to register what he's said and yell at him. It's a trick he's been using on double-oh agents for quite a while, and for the most part, it works.

A low growl alerts Q to Bond's dissatisfaction and he smiles to himself when the other man catches up.


End file.
